by Lauren Rowe
I open my mouth to reply but quickly realize I won’t be able to speak without crying.
“I wonder if some of the songs he wrote here at The Rockford will be on his new album?” Danica says breezily, apparently experiencing no emotional turmoil whatsoever as a result of the video.
But since I can’t speak without losing it, I drift back to my open textbook and pretend to study it, willing myself not to let the hurricane of emotion swirling inside me seep out.
Danica chuckles at the other end of the counter. “What a difference from the asshole we met a few weeks ago, huh? Hey, did you ever see a clip of his meltdown at his show here in Denver? Holy hell, it’s like he was a different dude from the one in LA. Lemme find it for you.” She begins swiping furiously on her phone. “You’ve got to see this. It’s night and day from what we just saw.”
“I’ve seen it,” I manage to choke out, my eyes stinging. I clear my throat. “Excuse me.”
I stride across the lobby toward the restrooms on rubbery legs, my lower lip trembling, my heart about to burst. Once inside the safety of a stall, I lock the door, sit on the toilet, and let my tears flow.
Chapter Thirty-Three
After a full shift at work and two classes at school, I haul my exhausted body into my apartment, toss my backpack onto the couch and the unopened FedEx envelope onto the counter, and set about making myself a sandwich in my small kitchen.
Of course, in my wildest fantasies, the envelope contains a one-way plane ticket to LA along with a note from Lucas that says, “These past two weeks, I’ve realized I’m lost without you, Abby!” But since life isn’t a fantasy—and, in fact, doles out knuckle sandwiches quite frequently—I’m guessing there’s a better chance pigs will fly than Lucas Ford sending me a declaration of undying love via FedEx. Which is precisely why I’ve been asking myself a certain question all day long on a running loop as that sealed envelope has burned a hole in my backpack. What, if anything, could possibly be inside that envelope that would make me almost as happy as a declaration of undying love from Lucas? And, unfortunately, the only answer I’ve been able to come up with is absolutely nothing.
Let’s say, for instance, Lucas feels like we have unfinished business, thanks to that goodbye kiss I denied him, and, therefore, the envelope contains a roundtrip plane ticket to LA and an invitation for me to visit him for a booty call. Would that scenario make me almost as happy as a happily ever after? No. Not even close. As much as the instant gratification side of my brain loves the idea of getting to have sex with Lucas again, the mature and rational side of it—yes, Mom, it seems I really do have one—knows without a doubt any kind of fuck-buddy situation with Lucas, no matter how thrilling in the short-term, would leave my poor, splintered heart much worse off. So, thanks, but no thanks. I’d rather not subject myself to the eventual agony.
And that’s the misery that awaits me if the envelope contains the fuck-buddy invitation I’m predicting it does. What if it shockingly contains nothing more than a pair of concert tickets and a thank you note from Lucas that says something like, “Thank you for being my muse for those awesome days in Miami!”—but Miami is scratched out, and replaced with—“Denver! Fondly, Luke.” Or, Jesus, what if even that’s too much to hope for and the envelope actually contains a note from Lucas’s “people” that says, “Thank you for being such a devoted fan!” plus a mass-signed photo of Lucas. Gah. It’s the possibility the envelope contains something as impersonal as that that’s kept me from opening it all morning long.
I finish making my food, staring at the harbinger of my doom on my counter the whole time, and finally head to the couch with my plate and laptop.
Once I’m settled on the couch, I quickly navigate to YouTube and click on various videos posted by audience members of Lucas’s LA concert last week. From what I can see from all the different videos, Lucas seems to have performed every single one of his biggest hits that night—which he’s not normally known to do. And even more surprising than that, it’s quite obvious to me Lucas was having an absolute blast that night performing those hits.
I close my laptop, my body electrified. There’s no doubt about it. Lucas is a new man. He’s free. And that makes me ecstatic for him. I’m way, way happier for him, I suddenly realize, than I am sad for myself.
All of a sudden, the weight of the world has lifted off me. Lucas isn’t mine. He belongs to the world. And, damn it, the world needs more amazing Lucas Ford songs! When you look at it like that, it’s far more important for Lucas to feel inspired to make music than for him to have me as a doting girlfriend. In fact, when you look at it like that, I’m acting like a downright fool.
In a sudden burst of resolve, I place my half-eaten plate of food on my coffee table and leap up to grab the envelope off the counter. Whatever Lucas—or his people—sent me via FedEx, I’ll survive my disappointment and eventually move on. I know I will. I got to live an amazing fairytale with Lucas for a few glorious days. I’ll hold that inside my heart and treasure it forever. But now it’s time for me to accept the fairytale simply doesn’t have a happily ever after. At least not for me.
I sit back down on my couch, open the envelope, and reach my trembling hand inside. When I pull it out I’m holding a fistful of confetti scraps covered in tiny print. I look closer and realize the shards of paper are the shredded remnants of Lucas’s non-disclosure agreement.
“Oh, Lucas,” I whisper.
I reach into the envelope again and pull out a folded notecard—and when I open it a folded square of paper flutters out onto my lap. Oh my God, my heart is exploding.
I read the handwriting inside the notecard.
My beautiful, perfect Angel,
I’ll never forget you. How could I? You’re the unforgettable Ass-kicker Assassin who didn’t take my shit, even though I’m Lucas Fucking Ford (!).
He makes a cute smiley face after that last line.
Thank you for freeing me, Abby. Now free yourself. Write something the world will devour, something that will make all your dreams come true. You deserve to be happy, however you can get there, even if that means Penelope tells the world what a twisted fuck I truly am. I hope our paths cross again one day in NYC, I truly do. But only if you’re a writer, making your dreams come true. I wish you the best, always and forever.
Luke
I read Lucas’s note ten times, not sure if I want to laugh or cry. Would it have killed him to sign off with “Love, Luke”? Or “XO, Luke,” at least? He’ll never forget me…and yet he doesn’t love me. Not even in some nebulous sort of “love you forever, babe!” kind of way? Well, fuck me.
With a dejected sigh, I pick up the folded square of paper in my lap. “Holy shit!” I blurt the second I unfold it. It’s a check made out to me from the account of LDF Enterprises, LLC, for—holy shit—two hundred fifty thousand dollars!
I blink my eyes in rapid succession about a hundred times, disbelieving what they’re telling me, but the zeros on the check remain unchanged. Holy shit! I have to call Lucas to thank him. I have to tell him this is way too much money. That I didn’t do what I did for payment.
I need to tell him I did what I did for him. Because—call me a crazy fan, mentally unhinged, a delusional fool, or diehard believer in fairytales—but, honestly, I love him! I do! I have to tell him all these things and more…
Except…
I suddenly remember I can’t call Lucas because I don’t have his phone number. And, of course, he didn’t include it in his note…because he doesn’t want me to call him.
I rub my forehead. Okay, now I feel slightly mind-fucked, I must admit. The guy gives me two hundred fifty thousand dollars and says he hopes to see me one day, but provides me no means of contacting him to thank him? Does that mean he’s planning to contact me one day? And if so, when? Or does it simply mean he’s letting me down easy. That Lucas Ford the artist is grateful to me for being his muse to the tune of a quarter-million bucks, but Lucas Ford the man is quite comfortable letti
ng fate take the wheel on whether or not our paths will ever cross again?
“Shit,” I whisper to my empty living room, the reality of the situation dawning on me. It’s Door Number Two. I know it is. The man I’d give anything to be with doesn’t want to be with me. The man gave me a proverbial fishing rod and told me to get out there and catch myself a basketful of fish, and added that if I’m successful he’ll perhaps see me on the flip side. One day. Maybe. In New York City. He hopes. But maybe not.
Wow. This is amazing and horrible all at once. I love him and he doesn’t love me. But he thinks I might be worthy of his love…one day. Maybe. And he cares enough about me to help me make myself worthy of him. Maybe.
Crap.
So this is what unrequited love feels like, huh? No wonder there are so many songs written about it. It’s torture.
I’m suddenly overwhelmed with a tidal wave of gratitude, rejection, hope, despair, heartache, excitement, and most of all, love for a generous, talented, and sexy man who cared enough about me to send me a most unbelievable gift. I can’t seem to hold myself upright anymore…so I flop forward onto my couch like the victim of a sniper, smash my face into a pillow, and lose myself to sobs.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Nine months later…
I raise my arm to hail a cab. I suppose I could walk or take the subway uptown, but I want to be able to sit calmly and look at my notes before I have to do this once-in-a-lifetime, nerve-racking interview mere moments from now. Holy hell, I’ve never interviewed anyone in my life, let alone the star of one of Hollywood’s biggest action franchises! And now I’m supposed to do this without throwing up? How is this my life?
A yellow cab slows down and stops in front of me and I slide into its backseat, shivering from the cold. “Thanks,” I say to the driver. “Getting chilly out here.” I give the driver the address where I’m headed—a swanky hotel near Central Park—and he nods and pulls back into traffic.
A block into our journey, the new Justin Timberlake song comes on the radio and the driver turns up the volume.
“Oh, I love Justin,” he mutters.
“Me, too,” I agree.
And that’s it for conversation, thankfully.
I pull out my notes for the interview and think about what I’m planning to ask Mr. Movie Star, trying to quiet the voice inside my head that keeps shrieking, “You’re in over your head, Medford! Call your boss and tell him to get someone else!”
Thankfully, Brandon Hanover knows I’m a total newbie who’s never conducted an actual interview in her life, let alone an interview of a movie star, so that takes the pressure off somewhat. But still, even so, I want to do a great job for my boss. And myself. At a minimum, I certainly don’t want to embarrass myself.
It’s mind-blowing to me how this opportunity came my way in the first place. According to my boss—whom I’ve worked with for only three months but already consider one of my all-time favorite people—Mr. Movie Star Brandon Hanover mentioned to him at a press junket that Maxim is his favorite magazine and that he happened to catch, and absolutely love, Penelope Pleasure’s debut article about sex clubs in the latest issue.
Of course, I was dying to think one of the biggest movie stars in the world had read something I’d written, let alone loved it, so I freaked out and maniacally begged to hear every last detail about their conversation, which my boss so generously supplied.
“I loved that sex club article,” Brandon Hanover apparently said to my boss. “I popped a boner and laughed—a great combination. Who is this ‘Penelope Pleasure’?”
“A blogger who submitted a spec article to us a few months ago,” my boss told him.
“Is she a dominatrix or something?” Mr. Movie Star asked.
“If she is, she sure hides it well,” my boss reportedly said. “She comes off as super sweet and squeaky clean. She kind of reminds me of Emma Stone.”
My boss told me Mr. Movie Star seemed highly intrigued at that point and started asking him a battery of questions about me, all of which ultimately led to my boss explaining I’d been hired by Maxim as a freelancer at that point, but that I’d made it clear I was gunning for a permanent position on the writing staff.
“I vote you hire the kid,” Mr. Movie Star apparently said. “Make her big dreams come true.”
“I would if I could,” my boss said he replied. “But the decision isn’t all mine. She really needs to make a huge splash with her next article to get the powers that be to take notice of her.” And my boss told me that’s when he had a brilliant idea. “You know, Brandon,” my boss said. “I bet if Penelope landed an interview with one of the world’s biggest movie stars, the powers that be would snatch her right up.”
And what did that saint of a movie star apparently say in reply to my boss’s obvious set up? “Schedule an interview for next week. I’ll give her something really good to print.”
And now, here I am, six months after moving to New York and three months after landing my first professional writing assignment, on my way to conduct an interview of one of the world’s biggest movie stars. And I’m crapping my pants. Or, more accurately, my beautiful new designer dress. Thank God, the minute I found out about this interview last week, I had the presence of mind—right after puking into a trashcan, of course—to make an appointment with a celebrity stylist to get myself downright Penelope-cized. I still look like me, which is good—and unavoidable. But it’s the best and sexiest version of me ever. It’s amazing what a difference flattering clothes, come-fuck-me heels, a sassy haircut, and blond highlights can make! I look down at my dress and the butterflies in my stomach momentarily stop flapping to give each other high fives. High wings?
“Are you dying to hear some new music from Lucas Ford?” the DJ’s voice on the radio asks as the Justin Timberlake song ends.
My head snaps up from my notes and the hair on the back of my neck stands up.
“I’ve got the first single off Luke’s upcoming album, which will be releasing in three months,” the DJ continues. “And folks, if this first single is any indication of what we can expect from the full album, this is going to be Lucas Ford’s best album yet. So, here it is… Lucas Ford and his brand new, heart-wrenching song, ‘Abandoned.’”
The cab driver turns up the volume. “I love Lucas Ford.”
I don’t reply. I’m too excited to speak. Or breathe.
The song kicks off with a guitar riff that’s so quintessential Lucas Ford, I’d know it was him playing it even if the DJ hadn’t said so.
My heart is racing from the guitar riff alone, but when Lucas begins to sing, it explodes and splatters all over the inside of the cab.
Wow.
Lucas’s voice is raw and vulnerable and sexy in a whole new way in this song. Yes, there’s something reminiscent of “Shattered Hearts” in the way he’s singing, but he’s a grown man of almost thirty now, after all, and the power and depth of his voice is something entirely new.
“Abandoned,” Lucas sings. “I wasn’t the man for you. Abandoned. You followed the plan straight through. Abandoned. And now there’s nothing I can do. Oh, baby, I’ve been abandoned by you.”
Tears prick my eyes as I continue to listen to the heartbreaking song. It’s passionate. Excruciating. Tormented. Utterly beautiful. And I never want to hear the motherfucking thing again.
“Wow,” the cabbie says breezily when the song ends. “That was even better than ‘Shattered Hearts,’ don’t you think? It kinda reminds me of that one. Same kinda thing, you know? But even better. I like the melody. It’s catchy.”
I nod and try to smile at the driver’s eyes looking at me in his rearview mirror, but I’m too overcome to command my vocal cords.
“Good for him,” the driver says, apparently not fazed by my silence. “I was hoping for a comeback for him. I love Lucas.”
I wipe my eyes and find my voice. “Yeah. So do I.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
I settle into the back seat of the b
lack sedan that’s driving me to work from my overnight stay at the Ritz Carlton and immediately pull my phone and earbuds out of my bag. It’s been a year since Lucas excitedly told the audience at his LA concert he’d written a bunch of songs for his fourth album, and three months since I heard “Abandoned” in the back of that taxi. Finally, Lucas’s fourth album is here.
The album released at midnight last night, actually, and although I’d planned to stay awake and download the whole thing at twelve oh one, it wasn’t meant to be. Unfortunately—or fortunately—my plan to listen to Lucas’s album on repeat last night was shot to hell. Around eleven, Brandon, my so-called boyfriend—or glorified fuck buddy—of the past three months, ever since that fateful day I interviewed him, called to say he’d spontaneously managed to squeeze a couple nights’ stay in New York into his filming schedule. He said he’d been “jonesing to tie up his kinky little cutie and fuck her to within an inch of her life.” Of course, since I can’t resist a confident man who orders me into his bed, I immediately changed out of my flannel jammies and fuzzy socks and into something appropriately Penelope-ish, and traipsed off from my Brooklyn apartment to the Ritz Carlton in Manhattan for our unexpected rendezvous. And then, yes, I did all manner of kinky things with Mr. Movie Star all night long. Just the way he likes it, the dirty bastard.
As Lucas’s album continues downloading onto my phone, I text my therapist to confirm my appointment after work. Who knew there were wonderful people in the profession who listen kindly and without judgment to their patients’ thoughts and concerns? As amazing as it sounds, I’ve been going to Dr. Amy for six months now and she hasn’t called me “abnormal” or “aberrant” even once! In fact, I can’t even count the number of times Dr. Amy’s waved her hand dismissively at me and said, “Oh, Abby, honey, that’s perfectly normal!”
