Remember When 2

by T. Torrest

  “Bitch.”

  Chapter 6THE CONTENDER

  “Dammit, Devin. Why are you being so stubborn?”

  I’d been arguing with my editor for over an hour. Although, as so often happened lately, the work-related argument had turned personal.

  “Layla, enough already. You’re a copywriter for godsakes. You are not a reporter.”

  “Well, gee, I wonder why that is.”

  I stared him down as best I could, considering he was a full head taller than me. It’s hard to be intimidating when you’re only five-and-a-half-feet tall.

  He looked at me then, that familiar exasperated expression he loved to give me, that sigh that let me know that he was still my superior and that I shouldn’t push him too far.

  But I knew I’d struck a nerve. We both knew that the only reason I was still stuck in the copywriting department was because Devin wanted it that way. He tried to justify holding me back by saying that I’d be the subject of nasty gossip, people thinking that a pretty little thing like me must have slept my way to a promotion, and he was only trying to protect me. Umm, I’m sorry. Is my name Jennifer and do we work at WKRP? Fact of the matter was, I was past the point of caring about anyone’s stupid gossip. I just wanted a chance to get my foot in the door.

  Devin just happened to be the doorman.

  I’d called him immediately after my lunch with Lisa, telling him that I had a great idea for a story—a fluff piece, really—nothing too hard-hitting, perfect filler for our little weekly periodical. I zoomed back into the city and headed straight for his apartment.

  Surprisingly, his curiosity had been piqued, because I was barely two steps inside the door before he said, “Okay. Out with it.”

  I went on to describe the story I had in mind, an interview with up-and-coming actor Trip Wiley, who just happens to be filming a movie right here in New York, and won’t you just make a simple little phonecall to set it up?

  Devin actually thought the interview was a decent enough idea, and we both knew that he’d be able to get in contact with Trip’s people.

  The problem was that he wasn’t going to let me be the one to do the interview.

  “I can’t believe you’re going to take my suggestion, but give the interview to another reporter.”

  “Correction: I’m giving it to a reporter.”

  My jaw dropped and I looked at him as though he’d just kicked me in the ribs. I was so angry that I almost threw a temper tantrum right there in the middle of his living room. Real nice thing to say. Way to go for the jugular, honey.

  Well, I could draw blood, too.

  I pulled myself together and started in with barely restrained malice in a seemingly unruffled voice, “I think there’s something you should know about this particular interviewee,” I said, smug and fully aware I’d be dropping a bomb here. “It just so happens that I personally know Trip Wiley. Intimately as a matter of fact.”

  When he started to smirk a “yeah right” look my way, I cut him off with, “It’s the truth. We went to high school together. I’ll even break out my yearbook to prove it to you.”

  I could have sworn I saw Devin’s composure slip just the slightest notch, giving me the fortitude to press my advantage. “It could give a real interesting angle to the story, but hey. If you’re happy enough with the same thousand words that will be printed in every other rag in this city, by all means, proceed.”

  I started to walk out of his apartment, but not before offering over my shoulder, “By the way, I’m sure Parade will be sending someone for an interview.”

  I closed the door behind me, letting that last little tidbit sink in. Devin would never admit it, but he was constantly comparing Now! with Parade. In the world of fluff “journalism”, it was what Now! only aspired to be. If Devin thought we’d actually have some edge over his arch nemesis, there was no way he wouldn’t take the shot.

  I stopped off at The Slaughtered Lamb to cool my jets with a quick drink before heading home. I was still fuming from my encounter with Devin, inwardly cursing him for turning me down.

  I know it seems kind of strange that the subject of Trip never came up between my fiancé and me before. But Devin was always the jealous type. Jealous of other editors, jealous of other magazines, jealous of other guys who he thought were smarter or richer or possibly better looking than himself. I figured he’d be pretty hurt about the fact that I had not only dated Trip, but actually lost my virginity to him as well, so there was no need to throw that in his face. Devin was a good guy and deserved better than that. I was an insecure mess most of the time, but that didn’t translate into some humongous, misguided ego where I felt the need to tear down my fiancé in order to make myself feel better.

  There wasn’t too much about Devin to tear down anyway. He was great-looking, sure, but that was only one of the many boxes I could check when it came to him. He had it all; he was the complete package. Successful, ambitious, witty. Smart, powerful, grounded. Who wouldn’t want a man like that? Those were the kinds of things a woman looked for in a husband, the kind of things the girl version of me would never have sought out. The teenaged me was all about having fun. But if I’m going to be honest, I should mention that a part of me mourned the loss of that girl.

  My memory flashed back to the summer of ’91: The Summer of Trip. Even compared to the independence and fun of being in my twenties, that summer still ranked as the single happiest time of my entire life. How could it not? I’d spent two solid months wrapped up in the arms of the love of my life. There was nothing like being a teenager in love. You never get to have that gooey, gaga craziness ever again. That’s the thing that old married couples always try to warn you about. How adult love is way more reserved, rational… unexciting. I mean, I knew I loved Devin. I did. It was just a bit sad that I’d met him in his thirties, when our relationship had to be treated so maturely. I kind of missed goofing around and being an idiot. I missed sand-wrestling and busting chops and Skittle fights.

  I missed Trip.

  Never in my wildest dreams would I have guessed that he’d been spending the entire summer working in my very own neighborhood. I considered walking over to the set just to say hi, but didn’t want to come off like some crazy fan, or worse yet, a stalker. I thought I’d look like just another lovestruck idiot, trying to talk my way past the wooden barricades in order to get a glimpse of the almost-famous Mr. Wiley. He probably didn’t even remember me. He probably wouldn’t care even if he did.

  I didn’t know why after so many years, I was still second-guessing myself when it came to Trip. I felt sixteen again, that horrible/wonderful time of being a teenager, so insecure and unsure of myself.

  I polished off my drink and headed home.

  * * *

  I spent the following days fuming, barely speaking to Devin. By Tuesday, unable to endure the silent treatment any longer, he called me into his office. He shut the door and asked me to sit down in my time-out chair. My ass had spent so many hours in that very seat, he may as well have added a brass plaque with my name on it.

  Instead of taking his normal position behind his desk, he surprised me by sitting in the club chair next to mine. He put his elbows on his knees and clasped his hands together, before letting out with an expelled breath. “I’ve been talking to Jerry,” he said at last.

  I knew this was going to be good. Jerry was Devin’s next-in-command. No big decision ever got made before talking to Jerry. I tried to stay calm as I asked, “And?”

  He pointed a finger in my direction and said, “If I let you do this interview-”

  “Devin!”

  “Calm down. I said if.” He tried not to smile as he continued, “If I let you do this interview, do you think it’s something you can handle?”

  I couldn’t even speak. I sat there like a ventriloquist dummy, shaking my head up and down enthusiastically.

  That made Devin’s serious expression crack. “Yes, well, I think so, too. I still have to run it by PR, but there
’s a good chance I can get you in the junket.”

  It wasn’t the exclusive interview I was hoping for, but a junket would be enough to get a story. God, a story! I was finally being given the chance to write my very own article.

  “Devin, thank you!” I leapt up from my chair, and prying eyes be damned, I threw my arms around him for a hug. “Thankyouthankyouthankyou!”

  Devin peeled my hands from around his neck, laughing and settling me back down to Earth.

  He pointed his finger at me again and said, “I’m giving you one shot. Don’t disappoint me on this.” I was elated enough that his unnecessary advice barely scathed. “And Layla? Please don’t forget about our little magazine when The New Yorker inevitably comes to call.”

  His tone was light, but his words weren’t. I thought there was more to that statement than he was letting on.

  But all I said was, “I won’t let you down.” And I meant it.

  I practically soared out of his office and spent the rest of that day in a daze.

  On Wednesday, I got the official go ahead, Devin letting me know by throwing me a whistle from his doorway. When I turned around, he simply gave me a smiling thumbs-up, and I could barely contain my excitement.

  I floated through Thursday and Friday, doing as much research as I could to prepare for my big interview the following week.

  Devin kept saying it was “cute”, but I didn’t let that bother me. I thanked him all throughout Friday night, and then once more on Saturday.

  Chapter 7

  AFTER SEX

  I awoke with a start, the buzzing of my intercom like a chainsaw through my brain. I groggily checked the clock on my nightstand and wondered what type of psychopath would ring my doorbell at eight o’clock on a Sunday morning.

  I stumbled to the door and pressed the talk button. “Hello?”

  A staticky, pissed-off voice answered back, “Wake up, sleepyhead! Open the damn door already!”

  Of course it was Lisa.

  I buzzed her in and watched as she stomped loudly up the stairwell, loaded with two brown grocery sacks in her arms and a humongous Louis Vuitton travel bag slung over her shoulder, which was banging into the walls on her way up. I’m sure my neighbors downstairs just loved that. But when it came to Lisa, I was already well aware that there was no curbing her volume. Thankfully, however, she waited until she made it inside my apartment before adding her voice to the racket. “Holy crap! Thank God you opened the door finally. There was this weird-looking old guy sitting on the bench out there that kept saying stuff to me in Italian.”

  In spite of my interrupted shuteye, I laughed. “Lis, that’s just Angelo. He’s harmless,” I explained, relieving her of the Louis Vuitton.

  Lisa unloaded the grocery bags onto my kitchen table before looking at me like I was nuts. “Oh, really? ‘Cause what the hell is Dutchie bonjovi coza?”

  I followed her into the kitchen, correcting her pronunciation, “Dolce giovani cosa. It means ‘sweet young thing’. He says it to all the girls that walk by. He’s not a perv, I promise.” I dove into the grocery bags as I asked, “But more importantly, why the hell are you here so damned early?”

  “Uh, more importantly, what the hell are you wearing?” she shot back.

  I looked down at my Mr. Bubble T-shirt and rainbow-striped stretch pants. Guessed I wasn’t looking too haute couture with my sleeping garb. “It’s not like I was expecting visitors,” I defended.

  “Obviously.”

  That made us both laugh as she started unpacking along with me. “Sorry for coming so early, but I couldn’t sleep. I knew you had nothing else on your schedule except for our lunch today, so I figured we could do breakfast instead.”

  “Gee. Thanks. I just love a weekend wakeup call, you wacko.”

  “Sounds wike you have a wisp.”

  I rolled my eyes as I pulled out a carton of eggs, some bread, OJ... when I got to the bottle of champagne, I held it up and asked, “Oooh. But you brought stuff for mimosas? I may have to forgive you.”

  Lisa was unpacking her bag, and dug around to pull out a second bottle. Jeez. I was barely even awake and yet there I was, staring down the distinct possibility that I’d be drunk before noon on a Sunday. Sister Jean would be so disappointed.

  She held it up and pointed to the label, informing me, “Yeah, for you, maybe. This one’s sparkling cider. I can’t drink the champagne.”

  I started to say, “Oh, real nice, Lis. What- you want me to be the only lush this morning? You love champagne. Since when can’t you-”

  Her lips curled into an irrepressible grin as I was speaking and holy shit oh my God there was no way Lisa was telling me what I thought she was trying to tell me.

  I looked at her face—she was trying so hard not to bust out of her skin—and I realized it was the truth.

  “NO! Lisa! You’re pregnant?!”

  “Yep. Preggers. Knocked up. Bun in the oven.”

  “Lisa!” Holy shit. “Oh my God! I- I don’t even know what to say!”

  I came around the table and threw my arms around her, my pregnant best friend. This was unfreakingbelievable. “A baby! Oh my God. I’m so happy for you!” It was unfathomable.

  I was hugging her so tight, trying to get my brain to register this monumental news. My best friend was going to be a mother.

  We broke our embrace, and I swiped an unexpected tear from my eye. “Oh my God, Lis. Congratulations. Holy crap. How long have you known?”

  She tried to contain her sniffles, too, announcing, “I just found out this morning. Took a test and the damned stick turned pink on me! I don’t even know why I took it, I’m not even late yet. I just had the thing lying around from a scare a few months ago. I’d gone out and bought like twenty of them.”

  “You never told me about that!”

  “Yeah, well, it was a shock, let me tell you. I was so panicked at the thought of being knocked up, but then I took the test and it showed up negative. It was weird, because instead of being relieved, I felt… disappointed. Pick, too. We didn’t realize that we were ready for this until then. We started trying after that.”

  “Trying?” I asked. That sounded so grown-up to me. “Yeesh. It’s like you spend your whole life trying not to get preggers, it must have been strange to actually want to get knocked up. What did Pick say?”

  “Oh, I woke the poor guy up at five this morning. I came running out of the bathroom wielding the pee stick, just shrieking at him. He jumped up, grabbing for his golf club under the bed before he realized I wasn’t being murdered.”

  “Ha! But he’s happy?”

  “Over the moon.”

  “Did you tell your parents yet? Oh my God, what did your mother say?!”

  “Oh, Steph just hit the roof. She woke my father up screaming and the two of them were just laughing and crying hysterically over the phone. She got all mad that I had called her about it instead of going over in person. So, I pit-stopped there before coming here, but I’ll go back with Pick after our breakfast.”

  The information finally caught up with me, enough so that I had to sit down before my legs gave out. Lisa took a seat too, and I reached across the table to grab her hands, staring dumbstruck into her beaming face. “Wow. Just... wow, Lis. I can’t believe you’re actually going to have a baby. A real, live, human baby!”

  “Well, God willing. I mean, it could turn out to be a T-Rex or something.”

  We both laughed.

  “Do you know when you’re due?” Oh God. It was just such an adult conversation. Due dates? How could I be discussing due dates with my childhood best friend? In my mind, she was perpetually seven years old.

  “Well, I haven’t even called the doctor yet, but based on my calculations, I’d have to guess sometime around May?”

  It was going to be quite the busy spring; planning my wedding, attending my cousin’s… and now there was a baby on the way. God… a baby! I still couldn’t wrap my brain around it.

  “I’m going to be
an aunt!” I suddenly declared, with marked enthusiasm.

  “Well, good for you. It’s quite the accomplishment. You should be proud. I’m so happy for you. Congratulations.”

  I started cracking up at Lisa’s flat tone. I knew she was kidding, but I also knew the next months were going to be a hormonal bitchfest. Lis was moody enough without the added chemical imbalance. Time to poke the bear. “Shut it. You’re just pissed that you’re gonna get fat.”

  Instead of rising to my comment, she shot me a durrhurr face and said, “Oh, hey. Speaking of that… I brought Louie for you, by the way.”

  I gave her a wide-eyed smile before rising out of my chair and heading over to the satchel I’d dumped near the front door. “For me?”

  “Don’t look so excited, you’re only getting the stuff inside. I expect the bag back.”

  I lugged the huge tote into my living room and plopped the thing onto my futon. When I unzipped it, I saw—much to my delight—an entire closet’s worth of clothes.

  Before I could even ask, Lisa said, “It’s a few favorite things from my fall wardrobe. Lord knows I’ll be too fat to fit in any of it by then, so I figured at least one of us should get some use out of it.” Then she got up to fix our mimosas.

  Jeez. Lisa was already getting pissy about the weight situation, but from the look of her, I’d guessed she hadn’t so much as gained a single ounce yet. The next months were going to be fun. Not.

  I started tearing through everything, pulling out piece after piece, laying them out in a mound on the coffee table, spreading my favorites across the back of the sofa. Lisa was always such a clothes horse, a condition made worse during her years at the various fashion institutes she’d attended after high school. When she and Pick had first moved out to California, she’d gone to Hollywood Arts and gotten her BA in Design. But by the time they’d moved back east, Pick was earning a crazy enough salary that her education was used less toward advancing her career and more toward maxing out her credit cards. She was fond of saying that she had majored in shopping, earning her degree from the college of Neiman Marcus.