#1 Crush

by T Gephart

  This could have been for a number of reasons. The girlfriend was the most obvious. We’d just met and barely knew each other, another top contender. But probably the most important—all that attraction and insanity was purely sitting on only one side of the fence. Mine.

  So, without the Jerry Maguire you-had-me-at-hello moment, I caught a cab back to Shitsville, making a pit stop in between to a liquor store. Thankfully for everyone involved I made it just before the two a.m. closing time, which saved me from further progressing my life of crime and breaking and entering. Because if I ever needed a drink, tonight—or more accurately this morning—was a time I needed it. I also picked up some juice so I could classify it as breakfast.

  And that’s why—when I woke up several vodka and orange juices later—I’d completely forgotten I was even in L.A. The whole monstrosity chalked up to a bizarre dirty dream gone bad. And in my dream, it had been very dirty.

  But no, fate would not be so kind. I was instead hungover, passed out on the floor of a strange room in my bra and panties. The little black dress I’d been wearing had been removed at some point and was hanging precariously from the door handle. My favorite black pumps were still on my feet. So at least I hadn’t been as tragic as Cinderella. Small victories.

  Which is why when I woke up, hair plastered to the side of my mouth, I took a minute to recall the fuzzy vortex that was my memory. And like I’d been plugged into a light socket, it all came back to me in a flooding rush.

  Even in my inebriated state, I could hear the sound of tolling bells.

  Annunciating the arrival of the demons coming for my soul.

  They were getting louder. The end was surely near.

  Oh, wait a minute. I moved my head closer to my partially opened clutch, the ringing getting louder as my ear got closer.

  Saved! It wasn’t the demons after all. I whispered my silent thank you as I retrieved my phone and accepted the call.

  “Hello?” I probably should have checked who it was, but my brain hadn’t kicked into thinking mode yet.

  “Oh, thank God!” Lila breathed a sigh of relief. “You didn’t call me and I fell asleep and I forgot to call the cops, and oh thank God they didn’t hack you up into tiny pieces.” The words rushed out of her mouth with barely a breath between them. “I’d never have forgiven myself if you’d died.”

  “I wouldn’t have either. Next time I’m assigning check-in duties to someone more responsible.” I completely ignored that it had been my unplaced call that was responsible for the mess in the first place. The reminder I’d set had been silenced, confused as to why I had set an alarm.

  “I’m sorry. I was just about to dial 9–1-1, but I figured I’d call you first. They get tetchy about false alarms.”

  “This is true. Thanks for that. The door being beaten down by L.A.’s finest is not how I wanted to wake up.”

  I shuffled myself into a sitting position which was a bad idea on all accounts. It made me woozy and further highlighted I was almost naked. Why I hadn’t made it to the bed was beyond me. Obviously it was too much to ask that I be in it, but lying on top would have been a suitable concession.

  “So, don’t leave me in suspense,” Lila continued, “tell me everything. Do not leave anything out.”

  Ugh. The recall.

  It was a necessary evil, not because I wanted to relive my antics, but because I valued Lila’s point of view. She was more analytical than I was, whip smart and loyal to a fault. So if anyone could give me some insight into what the hell went down, it was her. She also withheld judgment not only because she was a journalist, but also because her mother had been a madam of a whorehouse. Something like that kicking around in your closet meant you were pretty open-minded. We also got free condoms, so there was that.

  Slowly, I recounted the night, making sure to be as detailed as I could. She um-hmmed as I spoke, listening intently.

  I didn’t embellish—I doubted it was even possible to be honest—and stuck to the facts. I had even considered watering down the truth but knew that would serve no purpose in the post-mortem so instead spewed out every little piece of insanity until we ended up back to the present.

  Silence.

  Dead air.

  And if not for the sound of her breathing on the other end I would have been convinced we’d been disconnected.

  “Do not just sit there silent, Lila, you are supposed to be giving me feedback. Weigh in here.” I squeezed the bridge of my nose trying to ward off a headache.

  “I’m confused.” She sounded it too, which wasn’t a good sign. She was supposed to be my voice of reason, if she was confused, I had no hope.

  “About what?” There had been a lot of ground covered; she was going to have to narrow it down a bit.

  “All of it. He took you out for a burger?”

  “It’s his tradition, we already covered that. I was the tagalong.” I waved my hands in the air in an effort to illustrate the point, even though she couldn’t see me.

  “But it seems pretty private to share with someone you just met, right?”

  “You can’t ask me to analyze his motives, Lila.” I groaned closing my eyes. Nope headache was still there. “I can barely handle my own.”

  “Okay, but it sort of sounds like he was flirting and yet he made no moves on you at all.”

  “He has a girlfriend. So if nothing else was learned, he is faithful.”

  Not once did he try and kiss me. No meaningful touches that could be construed as intimate. And unless you count the playful tap he gave me on the shoulder and his hand pressing against my back when we left the party, he didn’t touch me at all. I, on the other hand, hadn’t been so innocent. Though kudos to me for not trying to kiss him, because as much as I knew he wasn’t mine, I still wanted to.

  “Did you get his number?” She hesitated.

  “Earth to Lila.” Now I was questioning her sanity. Like how in any scenario that would have been a possibility. “Did you not pay attention? He has a girlfriend. And I was basically an imposter. What good could come of me having his number?”

  “Ha! A little late in the game to be asking what good will come, that ship has sailed, sister.” She laughed. “And I was right about Ryan. He sounds perfect for me. You could have at least gotten his number.”

  “Yes, because you dating his über-hot best friend was at the forefront of my mind while I was dissolving into a puddle. How selfish of me.” I gave up on trying to remain upright and eased back onto the floor. “Lila, I was supposed to hate him.”

  “Well, sweet cheeks, things don’t always end up the way we want them,” she sighed. “Chalk it up to experience, write about it and go back to longing on the other side of a computer screen.”

  She was right. There was nothing that could be done. Literally nothing. Oh, I could dissect each second and try and tease out what I perceived as implied intention. I hadn’t done that since tenth grade when Tommy Nesser kissed me against my locker but didn’t ask me out. It hadn’t done me much good then—Tommy announcing he was gay in our senior year—and I doubted it would do much good now.

  “You still there?” Lila broke the silence, my thoughts and extrapolations being completely one-sided.

  “Yes, here. You’re right. I’ll catch an earlier flight and come home. See you soon.” And with a goodbye from both sides, the call was ended.

  What I should have done was pick myself up—both literally and figuratively—off the floor, shower and head to the airport. My reason for being in L.A. was no longer relevant and the sooner I got back to normal the better.

  But instead of dealing with all the common sense, my fingers wandered over my phone. Just an App selection here and a name typed into a search engine there and wham-o I was looking at the very face I had been staring at last night. Because I was a masochist and needed to torture myself a little more.

  And as I scrolled the latest sightings—mostly photos from last night’s premiere—nothing had been mentioned of his late-night bu
rger excursion. Not a single photo, no three line did-you-know teaser. It was as if those precious moments had been locked away, hidden from the rest of the world. And for those moments he hadn’t been the guy I’d seen in movies or magazines, he was just a guy.

  And I was just a girl.

  Standing in front of a boy.

  Asking him to love her.

  Ugh.

  Thanks a lot Notting Hill! Fuck you, very much.

  So, as I vowed to stop and be the adult my birthdate implied I was, I focused on one last photo. It was taken maybe a second or two before I met him, my body just outside of the frame. I recognized it, that smile as he greeted the crowd.

  My hand gripped the phone tighter as I focused, my eyes traveling over every inch of the photo.

  Staring at him.

  And there from the safety behind the screen, he stared back at me.

  His perfect fucking face.

  It was day three AE (After Eric), and life had returned to normal. Well, as normal as it got for a person like me.

  A self-imposed Google ban was still in place, and while I often found myself in front of a search bar dying for his name to be placed in it, I resisted. Instead, I redirected my search to makeup websites and rewarded myself by purchasing lipstick. In the span of three days I had accumulated thirty-two tubes of varying shades of red. At some point my credit card was going to be cancelled for suspicious activity, or I’d have enough lipstick to cover every square inch of my skin the color of Satan. It could always be worse, at least I wasn’t buying crack.

  Even though I was distracted I still turned in my column pieces on time, this one about the essentiality of cat memes to today’s society. And while I was nursing a case of do-I-really-have-to-put-on-pants, I left my apartment for my weekly catch up with my sister and her family. Everyone will be thankful to know I was, in fact, wearing pants.

  Judith was a different kind of animal. While myself and my younger sister Piper liked to play a little faster and looser with scheduled commitments—Piper’s made easier by being in another country—Judith ran her calendar with military precision. It was important to have structure she said, and her kids needed routine.

  I could argue that all that up-tightness was putting her on a fast course to premature aging and possibly a heart attack—okay, so maybe sometimes I did argue that—but I loved her and spending time with her and her family was never a chore.

  So with a bag of candy for my niece and nephew tucked into my purse—there was a reason why I was their favorite aunt—I got into my car and drove to their house.

  While I lived in a small but comfortable apartment in Brooklyn, they had a large Brownstone with a yard. Complete with manicured lawns and an Audi minivan, she was a card-carrying member of the Lululemon brigade.

  “You’re early.” Judith crossed her arms, the front door open as I climbed the steps. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong.” I smiled giving her a warm hug. “I just wanted to spend some time with my amazing sister, her GQ husband and their outstanding progeny. I couldn’t wait a second longer.”

  “Now I know something’s wrong.” Her eyes squinted as her hand moved to my forehead. “No fever. Maybe it’s a psychotic episode, Will can give me a second opinion.” She pulled me out of the doorway into the house, the smell of the cooking pot roast wafting into the hall.

  I wasn’t lying when I said my brother-in-law was GQ material. Will was handsome, smart and successful, all of which were eclipsed by his love for my sister and his family. And he loved me too, completely tolerating my jokes about his quest to give Manhattan housewives bigger boobs and smaller thighs.

  “Will, Tia’s sick.” We entered the sitting room—no fucking shit, they had an actual sitting room complete with wingback chairs—to find Will reading a newspaper beside a Tiffany lamp.

  “Do you guys always have to look like Better Homes and Gardens are about to show up?” I rolled my eyes and collapsed into the vacant wingback chair, my torn jeans and vintage Ramones T-shirt completely clashing with their décor. “Fetch me my smoking jacket and my slippers, Judith. We’ll take our brandies here.” My arm flailed dramatically over my eyes.

  “She seems fine to me.” Will smirked as he lowered his paper. “But we don’t have brandy here, Tia, you know I only drink cognac.” He played along, a veteran to my antics.

  “Does one boob cover it or do you need to do the pair?” I smiled sweetly at my brother-in-law. “I’m not current with the going price of fancy liquor.”

  “You rob a homeless person for those jeans or did you pay extra to look like a vagrant?” He laughed, not missing a beat.

  “I swear you two act worse than the kids.” Judith sighed. “Dinner is in twenty, let’s keep the conversation PG shall we?”

  “Fine, spoil our fun, Judith.” I childishly poked out my tongue as she disappeared to check on her pot roast. I was totally going to feed the kids candy before supper for retribution.

  No sooner had I pulled out the extra-large bag of Sour Patch Kids then my phone started to ring. Will groaning at my loud, obnoxious ringtone before I answered, the number not one I knew.

  “New York. You’re a tough girl to track down.”

  My heart stopped.

  Or maybe it skipped a beat.

  Whatever was happening in my chest wasn’t normal and I should definitely get an EKG.

  “Eric?” I whispered it, in case saying his name out loud might make the phone and the call evaporate.

  “Sure is.” His voice vibrated through the phone. “I flew in this morning and I am dying for a burger. You know somewhere decent in the city?”

  “Um.”

  Blank.

  I’d lived in the city my whole life and probably eaten at three-dozen burger places in that time, and not one of them came to mind. My memory gave me its middle finger as I braved this one on my own.

  “Give me a minute.” I pulled the phone away from my ear to find Will looking with great interest.

  “Drug dealer again?” He lifted a brow, not waiting for a response. “Take it in the study and make sure it’s not cut with contaminates. You can’t trust anyone these days.” He picked up his paper and went back to reading.

  “Thanks.” I scampered to my feet and jostled into the study, my fingers fumbling with the door as I closed it behind me.

  “Hiiiiiii.” The word came out longer and an octave higher than it needed to be. My butt lowered onto the soft leather of a large office chair as I eased into it.

  “Hi,” Eric responded, kindly not mentioning that I sounded like I’d just sucked a helium balloon.

  “So, I don’t remember giving you my number.”

  Or more to the point, I knew I hadn’t. Unless somehow he’d managed astral projection or he’d received those mental messages I’d been sending.

  “Are you mad?”

  Was this a serious question? Like if someone were to ask you if you want to have an arm amputated? Or would you rather have low fat chocolate instead of Godiva?

  “No, no,” I said more confidently. “Of course I’m not mad. I love surprises.”

  What the hell was I saying?

  “Good.” His exhale made me shiver. “I went back to The Roosevelt the next day, but strangely enough they couldn’t find a reservation under your name.”

  “Ah, yeah, that.” They couldn’t find me probably because Tia Monroe wasn’t a guest. “It was under another name. I’m in witness protection.”

  He laughed.

  Not a chuckle or a polite chortle but an actual deep-full-diaphragm-required-body-shaking laugh. I bet he looked good doing it too; I wished I could see him.

  “Witness protection, huh?” he managed in between laughing. “Should I worry the call is being monitored?”

  “No, this is a secure line, you’re safe.”

  “Good.” His voice was smooth, relaxed—liquid. “So, back to my original request. Burger. Good ones. In your great city.”

  “Well, mos
t people will tell you Shake Shack.”

  “I’m not asking most people,” he rumbled, no longer laughing.

  I wasn’t even going to pretend that statement alone didn’t make me want to cream my freaking pants.

  “Holiday’s in Brooklyn.” The answer fired out of my mouth. “Best burgers you’ve ever tasted, I guarantee it.”

  “Sounds like a challenge, New York. When are you free?”

  Okay, here was where I got perplexed. Because we—and by we I meant me and my apparent multiple personalities—had yet to establish A: how he got my number, B: what he was doing in New York and C: where his long-legged, great-hair model girlfriend was.

  Also, the request sounded vaguely like a date, which I knew it couldn’t be. Most importantly because of the C I had listed earlier. I was not long-legged or a model and while my hair was adequate, I barely knew him. I swear I was never going to banish myself from online searches again. Damn it and damn those thirty-two red lipsticks I didn’t need. If I’d been keeping up to date, I might know more, and I hated being at a disadvantage.

  “Tia? You still with me?”

  “Yes, sorry. Present.” I nodded, my affirmation unseen as he was on the freaking phone and couldn’t see me fucking nodding. “I’m here.”

  “Good, and if witness protection doesn’t have any limitations, I would like to explore the guarantee you gave me. I have pretty high standards, and if a grievance needs to be lodged then your presence is required. It’s all stock standard in burger ordinance.”

  Jesus. Freaking. Christ. And. All. The. Saints.

  This man was killing me. Killing. Me.

  How the hell was I supposed to say no to that? He’d plainly explained I’d be breaking regulations if I didn’t go, and as a law-abiding citizen I was obligated. And if that obligation wasn’t enough, I didn’t want to say no. Because this kind of shit didn’t happen to people outside of the movies—trust me, the irony was not lost on me. So, didn’t I owe it to every woman who’d hung a poster on her wall, wishing that crush would materialize, to see this through? It was public service. A duty, and I wanted to—very, very badly.