by Liora Blake
Do I need to specifically state that I’m asking you a question? Again, are you aware that a baby whitetail fawn has approximately 300 spots?
I can’t do anything but furrow my brow and stare at the phone again. How am I supposed to respond to something as random as that? It’s like when a stranger starts making idle conversation with you in line at the grocery store and all you want is for the checker to hurry up so they won’t see all your purchases and decide they actually know you well enough to start commenting on the brand of yogurt you like.
No. I was not aware of this important factoid. And, I live in Montana, where the deer and the antelope play. This begs the question, why do you know this information? You live in LA, where deer only exist as mythical creatures in the minds of small imaginative children, right?
I’m researching Montana.
Well, that’s interesting, isn’t it?
Then the next day, it chirps insistently again. This time, I’m pumping gas and trying to get the dollar ticker on the pump to land on an even number. It’s a pathetic little game I like to play.
Check this out! It’s the guy we saw at the skatepark. He just won a huge contest in Austin.
I click on the link to see the kid again, looking almost exactly like he did at the skatepark, but this time in front of a huge crowd. At the end of his run on the video, he raises his arms triumphantly, like his world finally makes sense. Grinning, I send Trevor back a smiling emoticon.
On and on, random texts keep arriving. Some are funny, some seem wistful, or maybe I’m reading too much into them. That’s the problem with texts and e-mails. There’s too much room for interpretation and maniacal questioning. What does that mean? Why doesn’t he say something back? Should I have texted that? Will he think it’s funny? Why? Why? Why?
Then on Friday, just a few days before I have to head back to LA, he sends a text that sounds irritated. If it’s even possible for a text to “sound” like anything.
Is there a reason I’m always the text initiator in this relationship? Why do I feel like I’m chasing your ass around? Not that I really have any issue with chasing that ass around.
Cripe, how is it possible to screw up a text-based relationship? I don’t even think it should count as a valid form of communication if you are older than thirteen. So I type back.
I don’t even like texting. You should be grateful I even respond to yours. I ignore all the ones my sister sends me. R U mad? ← See that? That’s what texting has done to the English language.
Well, when you put it that way. Sorry I bothered u with all my annoying texts. Thank you, thank you for answering them.
I would prefer if you only sent me written correspondence. On fine linen paper using a quill pen. Using words like “anon” and “doth.” These letters should have a wax seal of your family crest and be delivered via carrier pigeon.
Anon, I doth not have a family crest. We’re a white-trash-in-the-projects kind of family. Do prison tattoos count?
Not really. I promise to text you something random at some point. I wouldn’t want you feeling like you’re chasing me around. I think we both know you can catch me.
You bet that sweet little ass I can.
8
While sitting at the gate waiting for my flight to LA, I’m blasting Rilo Kiley through my earbuds so I might be able to drown at least one of my senses out completely. That way I can ignore the smell of stale airport air, that funny odor of overcooked fast food and burnt coffee mixed with people who are wearing either too much perfume or not enough. The music somehow helps me believe that the chair beneath me is somewhat more forgiving and the stale taste in my mouth of a day-old cheese Danish is finally dissipating.
Two women across from me are on their way home from a late-season skiing trip, a blonde and a brunette, the bright red windburn on their faces giving them away, along with the Aspen lift tickets hanging from their coat zippers. Rummaging through her carry-on bag, the blonde pulls out a book, holding it by its spine as she rearranges the rest of the items in the bag with her free hand. Setting the book in her lap, she brushes her hair back, tying the length in a loose bun at the nape of her neck.
As she raises the book to her face, I see my own name staring back from the cover. I’ve seen my books displayed in stores before and even read my name in newspapers, both big and small, but never actually seen anyone reading my book in real life. I’m torn between a strange desire to announce myself as the writer and a deeper instinct to crawl out of my skin. Before the blonde can start reading, they call for first class passengers to board and she gathers her things to leave. Tricky writer embarrassment averted.
When I finally clamber into my own row, I give a friendly smile to a young couple arranging their bags in the overhead compartment. The couple settles into the seats next to me, the woman in the center seat, her companion on the aisle. The woman leans into the man, whispering in his ear and then wrapping her fingers into his. I look down to notice a gleaming and large diamond on the woman’s left hand, which sits on the armrest. The sparkle shouts a new engagement, a fact confirmed by the behemoth bridal magazine she pulls out from her carry-on. Three hundred pages of glossy justification for spending thousands of dollars on a party that, statistically, will not be a once-in-a-lifetime event.
Still, seeing two people with their hands intertwined and sharing inconsequential thoughts in quiet whispers, I feel a little like a cup without a saucer. Leaning my forehead against the window, I find Tom Waits on my iPod, letting his gravelly voice fill my ears and give my heart something to hold on to.
After landing and checking in at the hotel, I venture out into the LA streets to meet Kellan for lunch. We’ve arranged it perfectly, so that he can find me another just-right outfit for The Evelyn Summers Show and I will get to enjoy a saucy, zinger-filled lunch with him. I can’t get enough of his cheeky attitude and profound ability to make me look awesome.
Despite the seemingly clear directions Kellan provided, I manage to get lost. While I turn in place and stare down each boulevard in hopes that I will see my oasis on the horizon, my phone rings. I grab it, positive that it’s Kellan, and he will guide me out of this maze with the raspy lilting sound of his voice.
Breathless, frustrated, and distracted, I end up speaking a little too loudly into the phone. “Kellan! Hey, I’m totally lost, so sorry I’m late.”
“Kate? It’s Trevor. Are you OK?”
I stop turning in place and stomp my foot on the ground. Grrr, when will I learn to check the caller ID before answering? This is going to be especially awkward, as there was a decision made yesterday by me, myself, and I that we would not let Trevor know that we would be in town. It was a decision made by both my desperate, hard up, lustful self and my independent girl-power self. It also involved a good deal of talking to myself in an empty room while packing my bags.
Yesterday, when I was filling my suitcases, it seemed like absolutely the right choice. I was positive that if I had sent him a text or called, assuming he would want to see me, I would have been met with a casual Oh yeah, I’m totally swamped right now kind of excuse. Because what else can someone like me possibly expect from someone like him?
“Oh, hi. Hi, Trevor. Yes, hello.”
“You sound weird. What’s going on? You’re lost?”
I stamp my foot against the ground again and then shake a closed fist into the air, probably scaring the people around me. Except this is LA and anything I do will likely be regarded as boringly normal.
“Yeah, sorry. I’m just trying to find this restaurant. It should be right here, but it isn’t. I mean, for God’s sake, I’m on Third Street and it’s called Joan’s on Third for a reason, right?”
“Joan’s on Third? Is that a chain now? That’s a superpopular place in LA.” His voice turns quieter and faraway, the confusion in his tone clear.
I realize that I can either come clean and spit it out or delve into a twisted dissertation constructed of fibs and half-truths. Given that
I probably subconsciously just dropped the name because deep down I want him to know I’m here, the idea of trying to build a web of lies about a fictitious chain restaurant is probably futile. Plus, every single time I hear his voice on the phone, where it’s right in my ear, I swear I can feel his breath on my neck. The notion makes my brain fuzzy and muddled.
“No, I’m lost in downtown LA. I’m meeting a stylist named Kellan there. He said it was five minutes from my hotel and now I’m already ten minutes late.”
“What? Are you fucking with me? You’re in LA. Now?”
“Yes.” I wait for him to stammer out that evasive too bad I’m so unbelievably busy and we can’t get together excuse.
“Why didn’t you tell me you were in town? Why didn’t you call me? Or text me?” His voice has an accusatory tone in it that makes me feel about two feet tall. In the background, I can hear music stopping and starting. It sounds like he’s walking out of one room with the music and then into another, quieter space.
“I don’t know. No big deal. I’m here for a few days to be on a talk show, but I didn’t expect anything from you.”
I’m not sure how my voice got so small all of a sudden. Like I, or any of my other personalities, have anything to feel guilty about.
“Are you serious right now?”
“Well—”
“Anon, woman! What do I have to do, hire a skywriter? Anon! Trevor doth like Kate! Trevor doth want to see her gorgeous little face again!”
He’s pissed, but it’s hilarious, so I can’t do anything but laugh because he’s shouting the word “anon” and trying to sound hard at the same time. I find the nearest building and lean against it, rolling my head back to rest on the brick façade. It’s too warm out, my feet hurt, and I’m running annoyingly late.
“Sorry. I just didn’t think you’d care. But right now, I need to find this restaurant. Please help me.”
“Fine.” He sighs exaggeratedly. “Tell me where you are.”
“The corner of Third and Harper. There’s a hipster coffee shop on one corner and some kind of ritzy hair place on the opposite corner.”
“You went past it. Just turn back toward the coffee shop and go about three more blocks. Start walking, Mosely, I’ll stay on the phone with you till you get there.”
“Thank you.” I start walking and realize we’re not saying anything. “Are we going to talk while I walk or what?”
“Hold on. Let me get out of here.” I hear a couple of doors open and then it’s evident he is outside, a slight wind whispering in the phone and the sound of cars driving past. “OK. I’m at the studio. I went in the hall to shout ‘Anon!’ at you but my producers were looking at me like I’d fucking lost it.”
“Where are you now?”
“In the parking lot. Where no one can hear me since I’m about to act like a complete pussy. I need you to tell me if you’re interested in this or not. If you’re not, that’s fine. But if you’re in the same city as me and don’t think to let me know, I guess I’m more into it than you are.”
He clears his throat at the end of his speech and then sighs again but this time the noise is more of a surrendering. I’m dumbstruck for a moment. Between the kisses, his biting innuendo, and now this, I’m starting to consider that my overactive brain may have been all wrong.
“That isn’t it. I just . . .”
“Fuck, Kate, spit it out. What’s the worst thing you can say?”
Before I can stuff the words back down my gullet, I start babbling. “I think you’re sexy and amazing and funny and charming. Every time you call me on the phone or send me a completely random text, I spend the first thirty seconds confused, trying to figure out why you’re wasting your time with someone like me. Then the rest of the time, I’m just trying not to think about how good it felt when you were kissing me or touching me. So, yeah, I’m interested, but—”
His voice cuts me off abruptly before I can either make a greater fool of myself or just hang up out of complete mortification.
“Just tell me when I can see you. I want to see you.”
“Tomorrow? I’m free in the morning. I just have to meet the production crew for pretaping prep at noon.” I’m holding my breath, hoping he won’t change his mind instantly.
“I normally go for a run in the morning—do you want to go? I know how you like running from me.” I can hear his tone lightening, a playful sarcasm returning to his voice and if I close my eyes, I can see his lovely pouty little mouth smirking at me.
“True, I do enjoy that.”
“I’ll pick you up at nine tomorrow morning. I’ve got a trail in mind that’s quiet and should put that tight little body of yours through the paces.”
Yeesh. He’s so brazen I can’t even come up with a witty comeback. Instead, all I can do is stammer out, “I’m here. I’m at the restaurant.” I soften my voice so he knows I’m trying to make up for avoiding him. “Thank you for walking with me. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Trying to make my expression unreadable when I walk into the restaurant, I fail miserably. Kellan reads my face like a deck of tarot cards and before I can apologize for being late, he’s interrogating me about the “dewy sex face” I’m apparently making.
9
Kellan believes every event, and I mean every single one, has a perfect outfit to go with it. Instead of letting me go for a run in the stuff I normally wear, which are completely reasonable brand-name pieces like Nike and Under Armour, he drags me to a Lululemon store for an entirely new outfit. To sweat and run in.
I nearly faint when he tosses a couple of pairs of running crops at me that each cost more than my shoes did. That is, until I put them on. In the dressing room, all I can do is sigh and then grin at my reflection in the mirror. Again, so freaking perfect. The tights coupled with a petal-soft long-sleeve top make me feel like I’ll easily be able to outrun Trevor and look good doing it.
In the morning, I dress in the new gear with my hair pulled back into a sleek ponytail and just a tiny bit of makeup on. I tried to resist the urge, but I couldn’t. Good luck showing me a girl who wants to look washed out on a run that is doubling as a date. After waking up entirely too early, watching the corny local morning news shows, eating some oatmeal from room service, and taking a long shower, I’m standing just outside the lobby waiting for Trevor.
No matter what position I try, leaning against the building casually, sitting on a bench just adjacent to the door or standing stiffly on the sidewalk, I can’t seem to make my body behave. I’m fidgeting, my arms feel foreign to me, and my right leg has the distinct sensation of an unruly woodpecker. Perhaps if I had slept better, instead of rolling around in an unbearably hot hotel bed going over and over and over everything Trevor said on the phone, then I wouldn’t feel like a jack-in-the-box rigged for action.
Finally, I sit on the bench and fold my legs up so I’m sitting cross-legged on it. I prop my elbows up on my knees and pick at my shoelaces. It seems to work, calming my brain and forcing my body to stay put for the moment. A couple of minutes later, a booming car stereo announces Trevor as he pulls his black, overpriced, European SUV to a stop at the curb. I can see him give a small wave before shutting the engine off and walking around from the driver’s side.
Last night, while staring at the ceiling, I considered a million details of this moment. What he would say, what I would say, whether would we shake hands or hug, even debating if I should smile shyly or seductively. Unfortunately, I hadn’t given enough thought to how he would look, standing in front of me again, or the way it would feel to see him. Up close, again. Close enough to touch, smell, and gape at.
Good grief. He looks like he just stepped out of an ad for something tremendously athletic. Like a walking REI ad. Relieved that a pair of sunglasses obscures my eyes, there is little chance he can see how I’m blatantly ogling every single part of him. Of course, as seems to be his style, there isn’t anything particularly flashy about his look: just a pair of running shorts, a l
ong-sleeved tech shirt, black sunglasses, and a pair of trail shoes with low socks.
The problem really is that I can see just enough while imagining too much. The shirt is a thin material that fits close enough to his body that the contours of his chest are evident, and his legs are pure muscle from his calves to his quads. Again, there are two reactions. Annoyance, because it seems so easy for him, and, embarrassingly, a drooling kind of lust. Suddenly, I consider far more interesting ways to burn a few calories than stupid, boring trail running.
“Hey.”
He smiles and it’s a huge grin, one that I’m surely mirroring back at him while standing up. All the while, my chest is fluttering with anxiety and self-consciousness. I’m sure it would be impossible for me to look as good as he does right now, Lululemon gear or not.
Pushing his sunglasses up to the top of his head, he gives my body the once-over and I quell the urge to smooth my hands over any invisible wrinkles in my outfit. As if anything could wrinkle these skintight pieces. Instead, I find somewhere to put my hands by tugging and then pulling down the length of my ponytail.
“You look . . .” He pulls his lips into a small grin. “Ready to get your ass kicked.”
“Bring it, Jenkins.” My lips curl and I put my hands on my hips in an effort to look intimidating. From behind him, in the backseat of his SUV, a dog props his head out the half-lowered door glass and lets out a single bark. It’s a sharp staccato noise, not menacing but certainly a bit demanding.
“Meet Dax. He’s my usual running partner. I hope you like dogs.”
Dax has his head hanging out the window in a playful but impatient way. It’s obvious this dog is used to getting his own way, and apparently, we’re not keeping up with his timetable. He’s some sort of adorable mutt, a goofy cattle dog with a bit of a blue heeler mixed in along the way.
