A Very Friendly Valentine's Day

by Kayley Loring

  EDDIE: Hands up if you’re excited!

  EDDIE: Hello?

  BIRDIE: I am so mad at you right now.

  BIRDIE: I really appreciate the sentiment. And that is a great idea to book a hotel room in Chicago. But I’m less than happy at the moment.

  EDDIE: Fair enough. Really looking forward to this!

  BIRDIE:

  EDDIE:

  BIRDIE:

  EDDIE:

  BIRDIE: Seriously, stop texting me! I’m really mad at you.

  EDDIE: Fair enough.

  BIRDIE:

  EDDIE: You love me.

  EDDIE: Have a great day.

  EDDIE: I promise not to take my shirt off when you’re around.

  EDDIE: I can’t make any promises about my pants, though.

  EDDIE: Tell your nipples to behave themselves.

  BIRDIE: Edward!!!

  EDDIE: Okay okay relax! I’m done!

  BIRDIE: I’ve compiled a list of ground rules re shared train bedroom. Check your email, please read carefully and refer to it again on the ninth of February. Thank you.

  EDDIE: Received. I have some notes.

  6

  Guidelines For Shared Bedroom On Train

  1. Both inhabitants shall remain fully clothed at all times (top and bottom) when in shared bedroom.

  * Please note under said guidelines, male inhabitant’s cropped Avengers tank top and Speedos are allowable, thx

  2. There will be no flirtation of any kind between inhabitants, i.e. using expressions of a verbal, textual, corporal, facial nature, etc.

  * Flirtation expressed in a spiritual/psychic nature is fair game, then. Good to know.

  3. There shall be no mention of either inhabitants’ nipples or reference to unfortunate one-time-only nipple slip/froner incident.

  * Male inhabitant objects to use of the term “froner.” Recommends adopting use of “amicable tumescence” or “friendly cock rocket” instead. Amicescence or frock rocket for short. Also, please note that it was a semi.

  * Male inhabitant agrees that this shall be the very last time either inhabitant mentions or reminisces about aforementioned one-time-only nipple slip/semi-amicescent incident.

  * Male inhabitant would like to point out that any and all future nipple slip/semi-frock rocket incidents shall be mentioned and reminisced about ad infinitum.

  4. There shall be no phone conversations with either inhabitants’ love interests or potential love interests within the confines of the bedroom, unless said bedroom is only occupied by one inhabitant at the time.

  * Male inhabitant demands more information regarding female inhabitant’s love interests and potential love interests.

  5. Needless to say, there will be no engaging in physical self-love activities in the presence of the other inhabitant—even if it seems like the other one might be fast asleep and unable to notice.

  * What is the policy regarding physical self-loathing activities of a sexual nature?

  6. There shall be no consumption of foods of a smelly nature while in the bedroom, i.e. hard-boiled eggs, Parmesan cheese, garlic-infused anything, tuna, salmon, paleo turkey pepperoni, paleo meat sticks of any kind.

  * Well that just hurts.

  7. Alcoholic beverages shall be consumed responsibly and at a reasonable rate.

  * Constantly.

  8. Needless to say, there will be no sharing of beds. One inhabitant per bed at all times. This includes the sharing of beds with any other passengers.

  * ;)

  Eddie

  The One with Two Annoying Cannavale Calls

  I’ve got about an hour before they call me to set for the first shirtless scene of the day and all I want to do is stick my head in a bowl of spaghetti Bolognese. Instead, I’m in my trailer, doing push-ups and lateral raises, taking careful bites of peanut butter rice cakes and sipping red wine—for glycogen reasons. It’s a fucking slow-motion no-dialogue scene, so all I have to do is look like an angsty, dreamy, shredded quarterback.

  I’m not saying my talents are being wasted on a CW high school drama—because End Zone is a good show—and looking angsty and dreamy and shredded are three of my many talents. But I did rock the house as Stanley Kowalski in A Streetcar Named Desire at UCLA. And I only had to take my shirt off once. Okay, so I was wearing a very tight, ripped tank top the rest of the time—but I also yelled out “Hey, STELLAAAAAA!” with more lovesick anguish than Marlon Brando, according to one reviewer who may or may not have been obsessed with me. Plus, I used to do Shakespeare monologues for auditions and never took my shirt off at all for those. So yeah, it would be nice if the writers would let me flex my acting muscles a little more than my actual muscles occasionally.

  I should probably insist on doing a respectable stage play during the show’s hiatus, but my agents are always pushing to get me on a movie. And yet, I’ll never get a decent movie role unless casting directors see me doing something interesting, with more depth. It’s the hot actor’s conundrum and I get a headache just thinking about it.

  So, I will take my mind off of it by calling my older brother Declan. He won’t answer while he’s at work, but I still haven’t told him about my New York trip. I’m sure he’ll be pleased to know that I’m finally meeting Alana in person. Or possibly be a total dick about it—I never know with him.

  To my surprise, he picks up on the second ring. “What?”

  “Hey—your ma know you answer your phone like that?”

  “Your ma know you’re bothering your very important lawyer brother at the office?”

  “I called your personal phone.”

  “I’m busy.”

  “Then send me to voicemail.”

  “Will you just tell me why you’re calling, or I’m hanging up.”

  “Jesus. I’ll be in New York for a few days, middle of February.”

  “Oh, good!”

  “Can we have lunch or something?”

  “Yeah. I’ll reschedule whatever I’ve got going on. As long as you aren’t talking about Valentine’s Day. But I’m sure Maddie would love to see you.”

  “And you know I’d be happy to see her.”

  “Watch it.”

  “And obviously, I’m not talking about Valentine’s Day. Trust me—I’ve got plans for that day that do not involve any family members. You can meet my girlfriend.”

  “Who, Birdie?”

  “Why are you so obsessed with Birdie?”

  “The girl you’re always talking about, you mean?”

  “I talk about her because she’s one of my best friends. Haven’t you ever had any female friends? Don’t bother answering that—I forgot who I was talking to. It’s not a thing. Trust me. Anyway, that’s not who I’m talking about right now. I’m talking about Alana.”

  “Right. The one you haven’t met yet.”

  “Can we not have this discussion again?”

  “Explain to me how Alana qualifies as a girlfriend.”

  “She’s just my girl, you know? I never said it was serious yet. We check in on each other every day and always like and comment on each other’s posts. It’s fun and it’s not complicated—I can literally hear you shaking your head and rolling your eyes, asshole.”

  “Yes, I’m the asshole. Not the douchebag who thinks the mutual liking of each other’s social media posts counts as a relationship.”

  “Says the asshole who lied to his entire family about dating his assistant.”

  “Hey—that wasn’t a lie. It just wasn’t true yet.”

  “Same here, exactly.” I barely even believe what I’m saying, but I am committed to winning every argument about this subject—especially with Declan.

  “Fine. We’re both fucked up and lucky any woman will have us.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Nolan might be in town too if you want to see
him.”

  “Our cousin Nolan?”

  “What other Nolan would I be talking about?”

  “I know like five guys named Nolan. Why isn’t he back in Ireland?”

  “I guess he met someone and decided to stick around for a while. We saw him last week. He’s a changed man.”

  I feel my scalp getting hot and prickly, and my whole body tenses up. I check myself in the mirror—my arms are super veiny right now. Nice. “Fucking Nolan Cassidy cannot get married before I do. That guy’s an animal.”

  “Didn’t realize it was a competition, but obviously, I will be getting married before either of you do. Where are you staying?

  “With Alana.”

  “You sure?”

  “Of course, I’m sure. That’s the whole point of the trip.”

  “Because the hotels in Manhattan are always booked up for Valentine’s Day. And I mean all of them. Brooklyn too.”

  “That won’t be an issue for me. And Birdie already has a room booked, so…”

  “Wait. Your friend Birdie is coming too?”

  “Yeah. She’ll be in town for something else, but I’m taking the train there with her. Don’t ask.”

  “Uh-huh. Anyway. If, for whatever reason, you need a place to stay—I know a few guys who will probably let you crash on their couch.”

  “I know a few guys too, fucker. Thanks, bro.”

  “No problem, brah. Oh, I was supposed to ask you…”

  “Yes?”

  “You know how Maddie has a niece named Piper?”

  “She hot?”

  “She’s thirteen.”

  “Right.” If we were in the same room, he would have smacked me up the side of the head at least twice by now. “Let me guess. She wants a signed headshot.”

  “I think she’d prefer a signed buttshot, but yeah. She’ll take what she can get.”

  “Done. Text me her address. I’ll have my publicist send her something. I’ll send one to Maddie too, so she doesn’t feel left out.”

  “Not necessary. Maddie joins me in gazing lovingly at the framed headshot I keep by my bed whenever she sleeps over.”

  “See you in a couple of weeks, asshole.”

  “Bye, Snookums.”

  I toss my phone onto the sofa, and now I just feel out of sorts. Now I really want a giant bowl of pasta. And a steak. And fries. And for some reason, I want to call Birdie. But I won’t. She’s busy at work, probably wearing her little white cotton gloves while carefully placing some piece of ancient art into a fancy labeled box and then indexing it. She’s probably not wearing the sexy librarian outfit that she’s always wearing when I imagine her at work. I don’t have any specific reason to call her. I just want to. Because she’s a friend. People call their friends. That’s how friendships work, Declan.

  But seriously, if Nolan settles down before I do, that is not okay.

  I send Alana a quick kissy face emoji and then drop to the floor to do twenty crunches.

  And I know my ma is calling me before I’ve done fifteen. I know because Darth Vader’s theme is playing on my phone. I programmed that in as her ringtone as a joke to piss her off when I was visiting for Christmas. She did not find it nearly as hilarious as my sister and I did. I also know that in the middle of Declan’s workday, he hung up with me and immediately called our mother to tell her that I’m going to New York to meet Alana for the first time. What. A. Dick.

  I do another five crunches before answering—because I’m disciplined. And also, because I don’t want to talk to my mother right now. But if she leaves a message, then I’ll have to call her back at some point today, and she will just give me more shit for every hour she has to wait to hear from me.

  I suck in a deep breath, gird my loins, and answer. “Hey, Ma. I’m just getting ready to shoot a scene. What’s up?”

  “Edward Sullivan Cannavale.”

  “Starting right in with all three names, huh?”

  “I give you life, I give you three good names, and what do you give me? Lies.”

  Wow. Mary Margaret O’Sullivan Cannavale is bringing her Irish mammy A-game today. “I never lied to you—what did Dec tell you?”

  “Oh, just that you don’t even have a girlfriend.”

  “Yeah, I do. I just haven’t met her in person yet. This is how things are done now—people get to know each other online first. What’s the big deal? Dec was pretending to date Maddie when they were there for Christmas.”

  “That’s different! It’s real now. They’re engaged. And you sound hungry. Have you eaten yet today?”

  “Yes, I’ve eaten! Some. And it’ll be real for Alana and me too, soon.”

  “Right. When you come out to see your Instagram girlfriend and brother in New York, while conveniently bypassing Cleveland and the rest of your immediate family. Mr. Bigshot Hollywood Actor.” I can hear her smiling, but that doesn’t make me feel any less guilty—as if it were even possible for me to swing by Cleveland to see her.

  Well-played, Ma. Well-played.

  “It’s fine. I just made every costume you ever needed for every play you ever did in school by hand and helped you learn your lines for everything until you left me for Los Angeles. Not to worry. I’ve got no time to see you anyway. I’m busy over here making the world go around for your father, all day, every day. And what’s this about you taking the train with your little Birdie friend and then ditching her for the other girl on Valentine’s Day?”

  “That is not how I would describe what’s going to happen. At all.”

  “What’s wrong with Birdie? You’ve known her since college—you two could be married with three kids by now.”

  “Hitting it pretty hard today, Ma.”

  “Well. Neither of us is getting any younger, and I need more grandkids.”

  “Half the guys in LA don’t get married until they’re, like, forty.”

  “Half the guys in LA aren’t my son. My baby boy. I need to know there’s a good woman out there looking after you. How’s a model in New York supposed to take care of you, huh?”

  “Ma. I don’t need to be taken care of.”

  “Don’t act all tough with me—you think I don’t know what you need? Your mother?”

  I can’t win this argument. I can make one and a half million viewers believe anything I say when I’m in character every week, but I will never convince my mother that she doesn’t know what I need, because I will always be the baby of the family. And what I need right now is to end this call.

  “You’re right. You are right. Listen, I have to—”

  “Well, if you aren’t gonna marry poor Birdie, then you’d better keep your hands off of her on the train. You hear me?”

  “Course, I will. The whole reason I’m taking the train with her is so I can make sure she’s safe.”

  “Uh-huh. Safe from other guys who want to put their grubby hands on her.”

  “Safe from psychopaths who travel by rail. But yes, also that.”

  “Uh-huh. Hang on.” She moves the phone away from her mouth but doesn’t cover the receiver when she yells at my dad. Every time. “It’s in the bottom drawer! To the left of the sink! The bottom one! How can I be more specific than that?! No, don’t touch it—I’ll get it! Honey, let me call you back after I get something for your father.”

  “I gotta do a scene. I’m at work.”

  “Fine. We will discuss this later. Do good work. I love you to pieces.”

  “Love you.”

  I hang up, somewhat more confused than I was before I’d answered. I do not like being confused. I really don’t like what my ma and Dec were saying about Alana. And I definitely don’t like what she was saying about Birdie.

  They’re the ones who are confused.

  I can absolutely keep my hands off of Birdie when we’re bunking together. I haven’t consumed any water this morning, just so I’ll look extra cut for the ladies. That is dedication. I know how to give the ladies what they want. If Birdie doesn’t want my hands on her, my
hands will not be on her.

  It’s all about being disciplined.

  It’s all about will power.

  If anyone’s got discipline and will power, it’s me.

  But if they serve spaghetti Bolognese on the train, then I’m eating all of it.

  Birdie

  The One with Just the Tip

  It is impossible to pack everything I need into one carry-on bag for a nine-day cross-country winter vacation, wherein six of those days will be spent on a train with Eddie Cannavale, and three of them will be spent on my own in New York City. I know this because I spent five hours selecting outfits with footwear and four hours trying to get them into a rolling suitcase along with my own bedding (because thanks but no thanks, Amtrak!). An hour into it, I did what any self-respecting adult woman would do—I started drinking merlot and burst into tears every time I couldn't get the stupid thing to zip up.

  Finally, I decided that it was ridiculous to pack shapeless sweatshirts, bulky sweaters and my baggiest sweatpants to wear on the train with Eddie. My intention had been to wear clothes that signaled that I was not trying to appear attractive to him—simply because we would be in such close quarters for three-day stretches. But by the second glass of merlot, I’d realized how silly that was. Because Eddie is still Eddie. And I’m still me. Whether we’re in the same American Lit class or in different cities or in a nine-and-a-half-foot-long room together, we’re still the same two people who’ve been very good, totally platonic friends for six years. Despite the one-time nipple-y semi-frock rocket incident that I accidentally thought about five or more times while pleasuring myself.