Romance Impossible

by Melanie Marchande

  I opened my eyes, slowly, blinking until I could see straight again.

  "You're not even arguing with me," Beckett said. "This is bad, isn't it?"

  I didn't answer.

  "You hired her because you thought she needed your help. Imagine how that would feel - accepting what's essentially a charity offer from someone who once stomped all over your dignity, and now feels bad about it."

  My hackles rose at the very thought. I hadn't looked at it that way.

  "You'd never do it. She only did it because she was pushed to the brink of desperation, and maybe because she felt she had something to prove. She wants you to trust and respect her as an equal. But you don't really trust anybody, or think anyone's your equal - which just makes the idea of winning you over even more attractive."

  "You're full of shit," I muttered, even as the obvious truth of his words began to sink in.

  "Damn," said Beckett. "I really thought I had it this time."

  I was staring at the floor, gripping handfuls of my own hair. Why the hell did I have to be like this? Why the hell did she have to be like this?

  I was never going to be the person she wanted me to be. She had to know that by now.

  So why didn't she just give up?

  ***

  Jill came to my office the next day, with her eyes cast down towards the floor.

  I wanted to shout at her, for absolutely no reason, so she'd just leave - so she'd finally stop trying to reach some part of me that didn't really exist. I was sick of it. I was sick of disappointing her, sick of the way she made me feel.

  But I didn't.

  "I'll do it," she said, placing the signed contract on my desk. "Let me know if you need anything else."

  "Thank you, Jill," I said.

  She stood there for a while, not speaking.

  "I want to apologize, again," she said, finally. "For what happened in New York. And everything else." She cleared her throat, looking up to meet my eyes. "I know it's not 'my fault,' but this...this isn't me. I don't act like this. It's just strange, because of...you know, because of my history, and...everything else." She blinked a few times, and hesitated again. "It's very unprofessional, the way I've been acting, and I'm very sorry."

  I kept my fists clenched at my sides, under the desk. "Let's not do this again," I said. "Trying to lob blame back and forth. Let's just make an effort to be civil to each other, hmm?"

  Her face went pale, and she stood up a little straighter. "All right, then," she said. "Sounds good to me."

  ***

  Christmas came on fast, as it always does, and rush of tourist business along with it. We had a few weeks that were busy enough that I barely had to speak to anyone, unless it was about something practical and urgent. We stayed open late for a New Year's toast, and two days later, the worst snowstorm in a decade swept through the city.

  The forecast came in the night before, but I insisted we'd stay open. Half the staff didn't bother showing, regardless. The worst of it was supposed to hit in the afternoon, and I suppose they didn't want to be stranded at work. I could hardly blame them.

  We had exactly one customer, and then the white-out came.

  "Something tells me I won't be leaving on time," said Jill, with her face pressed up against the window. The drifts were coming halfway up the side of the building.

  "Should've closed," I admitted, as the lights flickered. "Don't know what I was thinking."

  "You were thinking the weather guys were full of shit," she said, charitably, throwing her jacket over one of the dining room chairs. At least the heat was still working. "Which was a pretty good bet, honestly."

  The tension was still there, and I was beginning to realize it always would be. But we'd found a way to work together. To be civil. Friendly, even. Soon enough I'd find a way to promote her, and we wouldn't have to see each other all that often. I'd allow myself to forget the way she made me feel.

  The lights flickered again, and then went out.

  "Shit," said Jill and I, simultaneously.

  "That's it," Liam said, back in the kitchen. "I'm going home."

  The snow would be past his knees, but he didn't have far to walk, and I knew it was useless to argue with him.

  Jill was using her keyring light to rummage for something in the kitchen. Matches, presumably. I was proven right when she returned to the dining room and started lighting a few of the candles, until one corner of the dining room was filled with warm, flickering light.

  "Can't even see the ceiling," she said, tilting her head back. I glanced up, and she was right. Just endless darkness.

  I sat down across from her and we stayed here in a silence that felt just as endless, stretching between us for miles and miles. Things I couldn't say. Things she never would.

  And it didn't matter, really. If she loved me or she hated me, and I now suspected it was both - either way, there was no future for us.

  I knew this, and I accepted it, for so many reasons.

  But looking at her face in the candlelight, it would have been all too easy to forget.

  "Do you ever wonder," she said, her knees curled up to her chest, "what would have happened if we'd never met at Giovanni's?"

  I didn't want to go down this road.

  "No," I said. "I don't suppose it ever occurred to me."

  "Sometimes I do," she said, simply. "But I don't suppose you would have hired me."

  "I might've."

  She raised an eyebrow.

  "I might've," I repeated, stubbornly.

  "I don't know why I ever thought you'd forgotten me," she sighed. "Like it was some random happenstance, me ending up here."

  "I hired you because you're talented," I said. "Driven. You think I hire everyone whose feelings I've hurt?"

  "No," she said. "Maybe just the ones you feel bad about."

  The lights flickered abruptly, and she let out a little gasp.

  "Shit." She was laughing. "You'd think I would have been prepared for that."

  One more time, and then they stayed on. For one minute. Two.

  Outside, I heard the massive metal groan and scrape of a snow plow. Before long, there would be no excuse to stay here any longer. I felt desperate to make some kind of point, to make her understand - something. But I didn't know what.

  ***

  Before I knew it, Lydia was handing us our tickets for Los Angeles.

  "Phil says six more weeks of winter," she said, cheerily. "So you're getting out just in time."

  "What have I told you about referencing superstition in my presence?" I grumbled, unfolding the envelope. Six a.m. flight. Fantastic.

  "The one thing I don't get about that whole thing," Jill was saying, "is why six weeks? Specifically? Why is that his only unit of measurement for the seasons? You would think a psychic groundhog would be a little more range-y."

  "Precognitive," I said, purely to be an asshole. "He doesn't read minds."

  "Well he doesn't predict the weather, either, but as long as we're just accepting the basic premise." Jill squinted at her ticket. "Six a.m.? Seriously?"

  Lydia shrugged. "It was that, or a three-hour layover in Chicago."

  "Oh, well," said Jill. "I guess it could be worse."

  It got worse.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Rechauffer

  Everything sounds better when you say it in French. Don't just reheat cooked food; rechauffer. But if you can avoid it, don't reheat cooked food at all.

  - Excerpted from Dylan: A Lifetime of Recipes

  ***

  Jill

  ***

  When we arrived at LAX, it was pouring down rain. "Pissing down," as Max so charmingly put it.

  "Aren't we filming a bunch of outdoor stuff tomorrow?" I asked him, as we huddled underneath the shelter by the passenger pickup area.

  "Perhaps not," he said.

  As it turned out, that should have been the least of my worries.

  ***

  After two straight weeks of
spending the first forty-five minutes of your day sitting in a makeup chair, it actually starts to seem normal.

  My makeup artist was named Una and she told me her life story over the period of several days, to the point where I felt fully qualified to write her autobiography. I thought I looked eerie, staring at myself in the mirror - my skin too smooth and plasticine - but on T.V. it was necessary.

  Max told me this, and I didn't argue with him.

  We filmed a lot of things separately, and in such a piecemeal fashion that it was hard for me to follow the narrative of the competition. I got to know a few of the restaurant owners fairly well, but a few of them kept blending together in my mind, to the point where I didn't dare attempt to call anyone by name.

  The weather never turned on us again. The ground was a little soggy the first day, but after that, everything was beautiful.

  Our final few days of filming involved a big group shoot with members of the general public. The crew looked about as apprehensive as if they'd been asked to herd actual cats.

  Really, though - once everyone had been pulled together and organized - I thought the crowd was remarkably docile. They followed all their queues perfectly, and only screamed and cheered when they were told.

  I let my eyes scan over the multitudes, quietly amused at how many of the native Californians were bundled in coats and hats because it had dipped below sixty degrees.

  And then I saw him.

  A face. A face in the crowd that was all too familiar to me, even after all the time that had passed - and it really wasn't that long, was it?

  We were breaking for lunch, a distant voice informed me, over the ringing in my ears. The crowd started to disperse, and one of them started to move towards me. He didn't stop until he was a few feet away.

  "Hey," he said. He sounded the same, yet somehow, very different.

  My throat had closed up. I worked my mouth soundlessly a few times before I managed to answer him.

  "Hello, Eric."

  ***

  I'm still not sure how I ended up sitting across from Eric at one of the picnic tables. All around us, cast and crew happily ate their lunch, chattering around mouthfuls of poached salmon and grilled vegetables. I couldn't even see straight. I kept blinking, sure that he'd disappear and I'd wake up back in bed.

  "Jillian," he said. "Look at me. Please."

  "I am looking at you," I muttered, glancing down at the plate of food in front of me. How had that gotten there?

  "You're not," he said. "You're looking through me. And I know - look, I'm not stupid, I know that's what I deserve. But I came all the way over here to see you. Had to sell my dirt bike to get the tickets."

  I closed my eyes tightly for a moment, then opened them again. "What do you want, Eric?"

  He swallowed hard, and his eyes said everything. I didn't want to hear it, but I felt paralyzed. Rooted to the spot, my feet heavy as lead, sinking into the plastic bench.

  "Jill, I fucked up. I know I fucked up. You probably..." He raked his hands through his hair, laughing a little. "God knows what you think. I can't even imagine. As soon as I walked out the door, I wanted to turn around and come back. At least to explain myself. I used to sit there with my phone in my hand for hours, about to call you, but I just couldn't bring myself to do it. I knew it would hurt you more. And, okay, I was a coward."

  I could feel my mouth growing thinner by the second. A white noise was growing in my head, louder and louder, a dull roar that somehow didn't drown out the sound of his voice, or the sounds of the people around me. Their chatter seemed to grow louder and louder, almost deafening me, and I wanted nothing more than to shut my eyes and clamp my hands over my ears and scream.

  Instead, I just looked at him.

  "There's nothing I can say to change your mind about me now," Eric was saying. "I know that. But if there's any part of you...if you remember how things used to be, and I know you do, because I do - I think about it every day, Jillian. I swear I do."

  God damn him, he was right. How could I forget? Five years of my life, right out of college, and still some of the happiest times I'd ever had. I had built a new life without him. I was glad he was gone. But that didn't erase the memories.

  Our last anniversary together, we spent in the city, the same weekend as the World Series parade. It was the first time in a hundred years that the Sox had won at Fenway, and even though we were miles away from the festivities, little pieces of ticker tape still fluttered down from the sky and landed at our feet. We walked along the harbor with our fingers interlaced.

  Later, I'd learn that when he stepped away to "check his work messages" or "call the boarding kennel and see how Heidi's doing," he was really calling his new girlfriend. I remember the pit in my stomach when I got home and picked Heidi up, and apologized for all the phone calls from my worrying fiancé. And the owner gave me a blank look, saying they'd received no such calls.

  Right then, in that moment, I should have known. Or at least suspected. But I wrote it off as a mistake or a miscommunication. Someone else must have answered the phone. There had to be some explanation other than Eric lying about something so silly, so mundane.

  A week later, I was swimming in tears while he stormed out the door.

  "Jill," he said, snapping me back to the present. "Come on, baby. Tell me what you're thinking."

  "I was thinking about our anniversary weekend," I told him, before I could stop myself.

  "At the Harbor Hotel." He smiled, and it lit up his face the way it always had. Just the way I remembered. "You know, I dream about that weekend a lot. It's a little bit like living it over and over again. But then I wake up, and it's gone."

  I knew how he felt, but I wasn't about to admit it.

  He reached across the table and laid his hand over mine. I wanted to jerk it away, but I didn't.

  "Jill," he said. "You know, in my dreams, we're still together."

  And what about when we were together? Did you dream about her?

  "Jillian!" A voice cut through the fog, jerking me away from this moment, from the strange spell that Eric had somehow placed me under. It was Max.

  I looked up, slowly. Max was walking towards me, quickly, and as he drew closer I saw his brow furrow. He must have seen something in my face - but what, I couldn't imagine. I had no idea how much of my maelstrom of emotions was actually showing. To my surprise, I didn't feel any tears gathering.

  Then, I realized that Eric was still holding my hand.

  "Is everything okay?" Max glanced down at our hands on the table, then back up at my face. "We need you back on camera in five."

  Suddenly, I felt the weight of Max's hand resting on my shoulder. It was nothing more than a friendly gesture, and certainly wouldn't be interpreted any other way. But as I felt the warmth of his skin seeping through me, I remembered who I was now. What I was doing here. I was no longer Eric's faithful, adoring girlfriend - and more than that, I was no longer the person who could play that role.

  "Yes," I said, swallowing with an effort. I finally yanked my hand away from Eric. "Absolutely great. I'll be right over."

  "So that's your big bad boss, huh?" Eric observed as Max walked out of earshot. "I gotta say, when I heard that you were working for him, I was pretty shocked. He doesn't really seem like your style."

  "Yeah, well," I said, finally standing up on unsteady legs. "People change."

  I already had my back to him, and was several paces away, before he spoke again.

  "Jill, wait."

  Despite my better judgment, I stopped. But I didn't turn around.

  "Please, can I see you again? I just want to talk some more. I miss you so much."

  It was a strange, parallel universe echo of the things I'd said to him when he first left. Begging for just one more moment. Desperate for any conversation, even if I knew it would never satisfy me.

  "Please," he said again, when I didn't answer. "I'm not the same person I was two years ago. It's like you said. People change
."

  I turned my head, just enough to get a sidelong look at him.

  "I'm so sorry," he said, tears gathering in his eyes. "I don't even know how to tell you. I'm so sorry, baby, for everything. Just give me a chance to show you how much."

  Over by the stage, Max was frantically waving me over. I started walking again.

  "I have to get back to work," I said. But it wasn't no. It wasn't no, and Eric knew that was well as I did.

  God damn it.

  ***

  Right after the filming wrapped, the last time they called "CUT!" and we all broke into cheers, I saw Eric's face again. I'd forced myself to focus on anything but him, losing myself in the surreality of the filming process until it was over. But now, I couldn't ignore him anymore.

  He pushed his way through the teeming masses, right towards me. He had a bouquet of white daisies. Where had that come from?

  "Congratulations, Jill," he said, his eyes sparkling just like the night I fell in love with him. "You were great."

  All around me, people were laughing and high-fiving and hugging. Friends and family were gathering around. Instinctively, I looked for Max, but he had somehow slipped away in the midst of the chaos.

  "Come on," said Eric, reaching out to touch my arm. "Let's go have some drinks. Celebrate properly."

  "I don't know if I should..." But really, I didn't have an excuse. The day's work was done. Max clearly didn't need me, or he would have said something before he vanished.

  "Just one drink," said Eric. "Maybe two."

  I had to laugh at that. "I've heard that before."

  "Yeah, well." He came around and stood next to me, laying his hand on my back to steer me forward. Just like he always used to do. But instead of feeling comforted, I bristled a little.

  "Where are we going?"

  "Don't worry about it," he said. "You'll love it there."

  He had changed. I couldn't picture the Eric that I dated being so decisive, and so confident like this.