So I plunge myself into work, and go for three whole days without calling Danny, until he finally calls the apartment.
“Hey, pretty girl. Where you been?”
“I’m here,” I stammer nervously. “I just got in.” See, I’m not nervous that Danny will find out I was here and didn’t call. I’m nervous that the minute I see him, I’m going melt all over and end up even more confused about my life.
“Wanna go surfing?”
“Ha, ha. Why, is the coast guard having a slow day?”
“I thought we could try again.”
“Nobody surfs in the middle of November.”
“Sure, they do. In fact, I heard it’s even becoming a trend.”
“Then I’ll be happy to interview you all about it.”
“Come over. I miss you.”
“Can’t,” I tell him. “I have to go meet the teen panel.”
“How about tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow I’m pulling everything together for the newsletter. Due date is Thursday.”
“When’re you leaving?”
I pause. “Friday.”
Danny pauses too. “So when can I see you?”
I don’t know why I’m so afraid to see him. In New York I spent the whole week with Victor, squeezing in one activity after another. Why do I feel so different now?
“Thursday night,” I say firmly. “I’ll ship it off in the morning, come down to the beach, and we’ll cook up something yummy. Sound like a plan?”
Danny agrees, but he sounds sort of sullen. I should tell him, I know. But I can’t. That would tip the scale in his favor. But wasn’t spending the whole last week with Victor tipping the scale in his favor? I can’t tell anymore. This whole thing is happening too fast and definitely way too soon. I need some advice. Sound, solid advice from a wise sensei-like individual who is rich with knowledge and life experience, who can feel my confusion on a higher plane of existence and demystify my inner struggles to finally make it all make sense for me.
• • •
“Oh, my God, you should totally move to New York.”
“Totally.”
McKenna and Stacey take sips of their ice cream floats, then systematically hand the floats to each other to try.
“Okay, why exactly do you say that?” I’m not fooling around here. I said I wanted advice and I meant it. Maybe my teen panel is not exactly the Yoda-like embodiment of wisdom that I had hoped for, but they’re here and they’re willing to listen. Well, sort of.
“Because think about it, Lindsey.” McKenna slurps her float. “Everyone and their pet hamster wishes they lived in New York. I would so die to live there.”
“I would so die,” Stacey agrees.
“Have you guys ever been there?”
“Who cares!” they scoff. “NYC is the coolest town in the world.”
I hate it when people call a city populated by eight million people a “town.” That annoys the crap out of me. I sigh.
“This sounds like a classic case of ‘the grass is always greener,’” I tell them glumly.
“Listen, Lindsey.” McKenna stands up firmly. “You have to get one thing straight. There is no contest about grass.”
She points dramatically to the grass. “The grass is greener in California.”
And she’s right. This grass is brightly, boldly, robustly green. Greener than any piece of the rare foliage I’ve ever seen in or around New York City.
“But,” McKenna continues, “who the hell cares if the grass is green when you can be in a place that has all that excitement, all that shit going on, nonstop, twenty-four/seven? I mean, seriously here. Who cares about the grass? Who cares?”
• • •
“I made up a song on the way over here,” I tell Danny as he dips little zucchini sticks into seasoned breading and tosses them into his frying pan.
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. It’s called, ‘Who Cares about the Grass?’”
Danny looks up from the zucchini and gives me strange smile. I’m sitting on the counter next to the stove, and the hot oil keeps splashing out of the pan onto my arm. “Ow!”
“Are you going to sing it for me?”
“No,” I tell him.
“Then you’re not getting any zucchini.”
“But I love zucchini!”
“Then sing.”
I smile shyly and attempt the chorus before collapsing in a fit of giggles. I don’t know why I’m feeling so giddy and silly.
Danny puts his arms around me and feeds me a bite of zucchini. I wrap my dangling legs around him. “Who cares about the grass…” he ponders. “Very catchy. Prolific question, too.”
“Shut up.” I laugh.
“I care about the grass,” he tells me.
“I know you do. That’s why I like you.”
“Do you?” He pokes my stomach playfully.
“I just said I do.”
“No. Do you care about the grass?”
Suddenly I’m not laughing anymore. I’m looking into these big, beautiful blue eyes that feel as expansive as the ocean. Eyes that have a funny way of engulfing me because they feel so real and true, and because they belong to a person who, yes, does indeed care about the grass.
I slide my fingers across his face and hold his head in my hands, never blinking or pulling my eyes away from his. “Turn the stove off,” I tell him.
• • •
An hour later I am entangled in Danny’s flannel sheets, wearing nothing but a lazy smile and a pair of Danny’s big fluffy socks. We’ve already had sex twice, but instead of conking out or going back to the food, Danny is lying next to me, holding my hand and kissing my fingers as he softly hums my stupid grass song under his breath.
His sheets and blanket are a little old and tattered, but his bed is really soft and comfy, and it smells like April Fresh Downy. This is a bed I could wake up in on a Saturday morning and just not get out of all day long.
And the sex was absolutely wonderful. It was everything I’d expect from Danny – soft, slow, and delicious every moment through. And I don’t want to throw a crouton into the already boiling-over pot of cheese fondue, but I just can’t help myself. So for whatever it’s worth, it also felt “special.” There, I said it. I mean, it’s no big deal, really. Maybe the “special” part came from the fact that we waited so long, and there was such an incredible buildup to the actual event. But when I look over at Danny, I know that’s not true. Which is what propels me to break yet another one of my rules.
“Danny, I have to tell you something.” I put my hand on his arm, and he turns toward me and smiles. I look away.
“My job is ending. And…”
Danny sighs in sympathy and gives my hand a squeeze. “And what?”
I can’t do it. I just can’t. But I have to.
“And what?” he asks again.
I take a deep breath. “And I’m moving to New York full-time.”
I feel my hand loosen in his, then hit the sheet, and I realize that he has let go and dropped it.
“Please don’t be mad at me.”
He is quiet.
“I had to make a decision, and I just…”
“So you’re not coming back,” he says slowly.
“Well… not regularly.”
Danny looks at me for a long moment, then turns his back, pulls on his shorts, and walks out of the room. A moment later I hear the door slam.
I claw through the sheets, looking for my underwear and shorts, then pull on one of his sweatshirts and run after him. When I find him, he’s all the way down by the water, sitting on the sand on the beach. I take my shoes off and walk up behind him. The moon is just a sliver, but it’s casting a pretty bright glow over the ocean, and over us.
“Danny, I’m sorry.”
“What are you sorry for?” he asks, staring out at the water.
“I don’t know. I don’t know!” I walk around in front of him. “Look, this is all happening so fast, and I had t
o make a decision, and it’s been really hard on me, so –”
“You have a guy in New York, don’t you?”
I’m silent.
“Just tell me. I know it’s true. He’s the guy who called that night at the Halloween party.”
“Um…” God, I feel like such an asshole. “Well, yes, I was dating in New York as well as here.”
“Is it serious?”
There is just no good way to discuss this.
Slowly I sit down next to him and put my hand on his arm. “Danny –”
“Lindsey, what the fuck did you think you were doing?” He must be mad. He’s using the F-word. “Me and this other guy… were you just tossing us back and forth like a couple of apples you were juggling? Is that all we were to you?”
“No! That’s not how it was.”
“Well, clearly that’s how it was with me.”
“This is not about you or anyone else. But I’m being forced to make a choice, and I just feel like it’s something I have to do.”
“Why? Why New York? If it’s not about ‘anyone else,’ then make me understand what it’s about. I’d really like to understand.”
As I watch Danny stare out at the ocean, I start to feel myself weaken. I can literally feel my resolve turning into a bowl of oatmeal. So as best as I possibly can, I launch into the explanation I gave to Victor about New York, and its height and the reaching-up thing. But even as I hear the logic leaving my mouth, and I know I’ve made up my mind, my words are starting to sound less and less convincing. And I suddenly realize that I have to leave here, get out of the range of this beautiful man before I change my mind, drive back up to Hollywood, and unpack my suitcase for good.
I lean over and touch Danny’s cheek with my hand, but he won’t even look at me. I don’t know what to say, so I stand up and brush the sand off my legs. I point back up toward the house. “I’m going to get my stuff and…” I trail off.
He still doesn’t move, so I turn and walk through the sand, back up across the boardwalk, and up the stairs to his apartment. As I gather my clothes and things from his bedroom, I look around and feel a sinking on the inside of my stomach. I don’t want to leave this place. This small, cheap attic apartment with its meager furniture and surf paraphernalia cluttered all around… it suddenly feels comforting to me, and all I want is to sink back into his fluffy sheets and fall asleep on his pillow.
But I don’t sink back in. I hoist my bag over my shoulder and walk out into the front room. Danny is standing in the doorway, holding a folded map.
“Here,” he says, holding the map out to me. “Open it.”
I put down my bag and open the pages. It’s not a map of California, but a map of the whole United States. “What’s this for?”
“It’s to remind you that the secret to ambition and success and happiness isn’t here.” He points to California. “Or here.” He points to New York.
Then he places his hand on my heart. “It’s here.”
I put my hand over his on my chest, but I can feel his hand pull away from under me. He steps aside from the door so I can leave.
Clutching my map, I walk out the door. But when I’m halfway down the steps, he calls out my name quietly. I turn back.
“And when you’re busy doing all that reaching up,” he says, “don’t forget that you also have to reach out. Because if you don’t, all you’ll get is a handful of air.”
Chapter 30
When I get home I’m too distraught to sleep. Half of me can’t believe I just walked away from Danny. But the other half is on autopilot, commandeering my arms to pack my suitcase so that when I wake up tomorrow, I’m completely and totally prepared to walk out the door and never look back.
Then I lie down on the couch, flip on the television, and zonk out in about five seconds flat.
The next morning I wake up to a banging sound.
“Lindsey!” Carmen is shouting through the door. “Are you in there? You’re going to miss your plane!”
Shit. I jump up to let her in, then begin to run around the apartment, gathering my stuff. The TV is still on, and I can hear Carmen plopping down on the couch and turning up the volume. “Daytime TV is such shit,” she mutters.
“Don’t bother helping!” I call out to her from the bedroom.
“But I want you to miss your plane.” I hear her laugh. Then from a far-off distance in my head, I can hear the tune of a jingle that sounds vaguely familiar and strangely unsettling.
“Uh, Lindsey… I think you should come watch this.”
I peek around the corner into the living room, and my eyes slowly focus on the TV screen as I see the opening segment of DayLine NBC coming onto the screen. My God. That song brings back such horrific memories that I’ll be happy if I never hear it again.
“Ugh. Don’t rub salt in my war wounds.” I walk past Carmen and fling open the blinds. Gorgeous and sunny. Of course. Behind me, I hear the new KFC jingle, and assume the show has gone to a commercial. But suddenly Georgia Dunn’s voice cuts over the song.
“We have an interesting show for you today,” Georgia gushes. “The ownership of creative property.”
I stop in my tracks and turn quickly back to the television. “When a writer creates a show or a movie, when a designer dreams up a new dress, when an ad agency has visions for a commercial… who really owns those ideas?”
“Gimme that!” I shout at Carmen as I scramble for the remote, desperately trying to turn up the volume. But instead I end up flipping the channel, and then turning it off. “Shit!” I scream, fumbling to get it back on. Okay, there we go.
“Two weeks ago,” Georgia continues, “DayLine ran a story on the new wave of trend-tracking in our marketing culture.” Horrified, I let my eyes focus on the screen behind her, which shows a frozen image of me and Jen from the taping of our show. “Two young trend forecasters were here on the program, telling us about their ideas and methodologies. But when their newsletter became victim of a corporate overhaul, one of the girls filed to start a new business under her own name, taking all their ideas along with her.”
I turn to Carmen. “She did? Already?”
Carmen shrugs.
I glance at the clock. My flight is in one hour and fifteen minutes. I barely have time to make it to the airport. Carmen notices and jumps up. “I’ll get your stuff ready.”
Georgia continues. “As an aside, a DayLine producer happened to uncover the real truth to the brains behind the brawn. Take a look at this, captured from the video surveillance in our green room right after the taping…”
Suddenly the video turns a little fuzzy and muted, and from above I can see Liz, Jen, and myself standing in the dressing room after the show.
“You know that half of what’s in that newsletter came directly from Lindsey,” Liz spits angrily. “More than half. But you sat out there and acted like the ideas were all yours and she’s just your order taker.”
“What do you care? We came off great. The Pulse came off great. Gordon-Taylor came off great!” Jen retorts.
“Oh, really? And now everything that Lindsey says to our clients, they’re going to want to double-check with you?”
“Oh, Liz. We don’t really have to worry about that now, do we?” Jen’s voice drips with heavy foreshadowing.
I gasp as Georgia continues. “That was just a little tidbit we had fun throwing in.” The audience laughs.
“But it got us to thinking about how the business world handles ideas. Let’s take television, for example, since we know an awful lot about it…”
“Lindsey, oh, my God!” Carmen jumps up and grabs me in delight. “Jen is toast! They totally outed her on national television!”
I’m still in shock. “This is good, right?”
“This is amazing!” she shrieks. “And let me tell you something. You owe somebody over at NBC a seriously huge Christmas fruit basket.”
That’s when I realize that Julia Sykes isn’t just the news writer who interviewed me f
or the Times, or just the TV producer who suggested we be shown on the trend segment. She’s my new friend-in-waiting. She’s my Carmen in New York.
Not that anyone could replace the Carmen who’s now standing in front of me, holding the car door open with tears streaming down her cheeks.
“Don’t do that,” I tell her. “You’re going to make me cry too, and my mascara’s packed in the suitcase.”
“Are you sure you’re doing the right thing?” Carmen asks, her eyes searching my face. I have to look away for a second.
“Hey. It’s not over between us. We can still have cocktails and ciggies over the phone, can’t we?” I ask hopefully.
“I thought you quit smoking!”
“For you, I can make an exception every now and then.”
We grab each other in a tight hug. Then she pushes me into the car and I’m off.
All the way to the airport, I’m thinking about the DayLine special, and how, with any luck, I’ll be able to take back every bit of credit Jen stole from me and launch into a new job search with guns blazing. The more I think about it, the more excited I get, and I realize that while I’m supposed to be on my way back to Chicago, I just can’t waste any more time.
“I need to switch my ticket,” I tell the ticket agent. “I know it’s going to cost more, but I have to get to New York.” This one’s coming out of my own wallet, but I’ll just have to suck it up.
Sitting at my gate, waiting to board, I try to call Liz. I turned in the newsletter yesterday morning before going over to Danny’s, but I never heard anything back on whether or not she liked it. I left two messages at the agency, but she hasn’t called me back yet, which is unlike her.
“She isn’t here, Lindsey,” Liz’s assistant, Patricia, says sympathetically. “I’m sorry. I know you’ve been trying to reach her.”
“Patricia, will you tell me where she is? I know you know.”
“Actually, Lindsey, it’s probably best if you just leave a message.”
I don’t understand. Now that she’s got the final copy of The Pulse in her hands, is Liz blowing me off too?
Bicoastal Babe Page 26
