It’s part of his efforts to be happy, to rise above the depression he’s been battling since my mom died.
My heartbeat spikes as I open the note, hoping it’s not bad news. It’s been bad news, and that’s one of the reasons he keeps emailing me daily. To bring positivity into his life. Something his shrink advised him to do several months ago, along with the suggestion to adopt a dog.
Today’s missive asks how my show is going.
I wince, hating to disappoint him, especially since he was the only one who believed in me for so long. He was so proud when the network picked up my show. You’ll be on your way to an Emmy in no time, he’d said.
I’d laughed him off, telling him there was no way that would happen.
I believe in you. I always have.
I write back now: It’s great! I have a fantastic new idea for a storyline. I’m busy tap, tap, tapping away on the keyboard. How are you? How’s Mister Dog? What’s for lunch? Back soon—need to go hit the daily mileage quota!
Our emails aren’t War and Peace, but the focus on the mundane details seems to help him stay positive, so there’s no need for me to share my negatives.
I pull on a pair of running shorts and sneakers and head for the nearby trails to run with my bestie, Christine. We’re training for a triathlon, so I FaceTime her as I hit the path.
“Question,” I say, diving straight into the thick of it, as we usually do.
“Answer . . . maybe,” she says, already pounding the pavement in Golden Gate Park. Since we live an hour apart, we train together through FaceTime. This sometimes makes me feel like I’m thirteen, talking to my best friend via an app while I work out—yet my bills very much remind me I’m not a teenager.
I fire off my question. “Is it considered spying on someone if I’m sharing information gleaned simply by noticing the things around me?”
She laughs, her freckled face and big brown eyes bouncing around on the screen as she jogs. “You realize that’s the kind of question that if you’re asking it, the answer is probably yes? Now, fess up. Who are you spying on and what dirt have you dug up?”
“I had a feeling that was what you were going to say. But in my defense, it was sort of a fruitless mission. I learned nada.”
“As you should when spying. What’s this mission all about though?”
As we run, I tell her about the angel that the muses dropped on my front lawn last night.
“He sounds like one determined camper, and if he’d have come to me beforehand, I’d have said maybe call the woman first,” she says, the therapist in her doling out advice from afar. I love her therapist advice and the fact that she gives it to me for free instead of one hundred dollars an hour. Like when she helped me come to terms over how my relationship with my ex-boyfriend Anthony ended. That was a bit of a bummer since, well, I was madly in love, and he was . . . not.
“I know, but she must be something special for him to go all out like this. I want to help him.”
She lifts a brow. “Be honest. You’re going to use him as inspiration for your show. This is a two-way street kind of thing?”
I gasp. “Use him? How could you think such a thing?”
She laughs, rolling her eyes. “Because you are like a sponge. Anything remotely funny, interesting, quirky, bizarre, or unusual that someone says, you file it away and break it out later on an episode. Like that time you were writing for the late-night comedy show, and David was dipping carrots in hummus and moaning in pleasure, and you asked if he wanted to marry the hummus, and he said, ‘I just want to fill a bathtub with it.’ And there was a bathtub full of hummus in your next sketch.”
I point at her. “And the bathtub hummus line was a huge hit with the audience.”
“I found it amusing too,” she admits. “So you’re going to mentally record every funny moment while taking on this guy’s romance rehab?”
I smile as I round a switchback, my breath coming faster. “Exactly. Seems like a fair trade. I think I can help him in the love department.”
She nods. “You’ve always been good at relationship advice. Like that time you told me to surprise David at dinner wearing a trench coat, heels, and La Perla.”
I laugh, remembering when she surprised the hell out of her then fiancé. “Was that relationship advice or sex advice?”
“Sometimes they’re one and the same,” she quips.
“True that.”
“Are you giving this guy sex advice?”
I scoff. That would be the height of irony since I’m no expert in that field, despite my avid reading interest in it. “No way. But honestly, he’s so clueless it’s endearing. Sort of like how David was when you first met him.”
“The sheer woman-hours needed to deprogram a man after attending an all-boys school can be exhausting.” Christine met her husband their senior year of college, and she said you can always tell the guys who went to an all-boys school because they don’t know how to act around women. They are all sex talk, sports comments, and grunts.
“But you liked it,” I point out as I run past a morning warrior, a woman practically sprinting along the trail. She shoots me a look of disdain, which I suspect is due to my use of a cell phone while exercising. What can I say? Running is Capital D Dull if you don’t have someone to talk to or a great album to sing along with. Since I can’t hit a single note, the running warrior ought to be grateful I’m gabbing instead.
“He was my lovable buffoon. And he still is. So what’s the deal with your Dobler?”
“He’s kind of making me think about new directions for my show. Maybe a touch of romance isn’t such a bad idea. It worked on Kiss and Tell,” I say, mentioning the online series I wrote for a few years ago—it was one of those limited-run shows with an ensemble cast where the viewer is left guessing till the last episode as to who winds up with who.
“I loved Kiss and Tell. But then again, I’m a devotee of all things kissing, especially ‘Times They Should Have Kissed.’”
“You’re such a romantic,” I say, laughing when she mentions her favorite Tumblr feed, detailing fictional on-screen and literary couples that fans think should be together.
“Seriously, Watson and Holmes should absolutely kiss and so should Harry and Hermione.”
I shake my head. “Nope. Ginny is perfect for Harry.”
“But you do agree Watson is perfect for Holmes?”
I smile, conceding that point. “You won’t get any argument from me on that.”
As Christine jogs beside a field of flowers, her expression turns more thoughtful. “But I do think it’s a good direction for your show. After all, people generally are looking for love. That’s kind of why I have a job.”
I arch a brow at her small-screen face. “I figured you had a job because people have mommy issues, like me.”
“You do have mommy issues, but your mom was wrong. Also, don’t forget about daddy issues. Those are a big thing too.”
We chat more as we run, virtual-training together till we’re done. “Have fun with your science experiment,” she says as we say goodbye.
“Have fun fixing all those mommy and daddy issues.”
When I return home, I down a glass of water and jot out some notes for my next scene after the Speedo bit.
I picture a glasses-wearing hottie showing up at a girl’s door and trying to win her heart.
Carrying poster boards.
On them, he confesses his love.
Wait.
That doesn’t feel quite right.
Because my character isn’t a creepy stalker. Yet, there are fan fiction sites dedicated to Mark and Juliet from Love Actually. What if they were together? What if they kissed more deeply on Christmas? What if she left her husband? I hop on over to Christine’s favorite Tumblr page where fan fiction enthusiasts have imagined their favorite silver- and small-screen couples lip-locking.
I peer at the images. Scully and Mulder. Duckie and Andie. Jack and Liz. I cringe at the last one, a reminde
r that some shows don’t need romance to work.
But my show isn’t working as is.
What if Tom and Cassie were together? What if I wrote them in as characters?
I imagine Cassie, the yoga queen, serenely turning her body into a warrior, holding that pose when Tom shows up with his placards.
He’s about to profess his true heart. But before he launches into his re-enactment of Love Actually, his trusty gal pal grabs him by the hem of his shirt and reminds him that the guy holding the placards always loses.
“You’re right. Of course you’re right,” he says.
He throws away the cards, strides into the yoga studio, takes off his shoes, and does the best yoga pose Cassie’s ever seen.
“Your downward dog is so good,” she says.
“I’ve been practicing for years,” he says huskily.
“Yoga?”
“No, to ask you to have dinner with me.”
Hearts flutter, but she doesn’t say yes to dinner. That would be too easy.
Hours later, I close the laptop and get ready to see the source of my inspiration.
6
Tom
My phone buzzes with a text.
Ransom: Give me all the deets.
Me: In a nutshell: Wrong Girl.
Ransom: NOOOOOO. But holy shit. That’s awful and awesome at the same time. I need more details. Please tell me Wrong Girl caught everything on video.
Me: If there’s a God, she did not.
Ransom: I pray there’s no God, then. So what happened with Wrong Girl? Was she so moved by your awesome grand gesturing that she decided to take up with you for the rest of her life?
Me: She bought me an iced tea.
Ransom: Huh.
Me: Huh, what?
Ransom: Huh. I have no clue what that means, and I’m usually good at understanding women.
Me: Same here.
It seemed like a good idea at the time.
But do I need that much help? I’m not some hapless twit who has no clue about women, like Finley suggested. I’ve had my fair share. I’ve made sure I never have to worry about someone pulling a Sally-at-the-diner on me.
Plus, I get along great with the ladies—of all ages.
Take the hyper-serious Midge Waterson. She’s known for rarely cracking a smile, but she’s smiling in our meeting as we review the recent sandbag trials I ran for the Space Blaster. That’s when we test rides with sandbags instead of people.
“And all sandbags were tall enough to ride the ride,” I say to Midge, my new contact at the standards organization that oversees thrill rides. She’s grinning now, so clearly I know something about how to interact with the fairer sex. Fine, this is work-related, but the lessons still apply.
“Were they all well-behaved?”
“I’m happy to report they screamed their lungs out—or would have, if they had any.”
“Screaming is a sign of a top-notch ride. Good screaming, that is.” She peers down her sharp, straight nose at the report, reviewing final details of how the ride fared with sandbag thrill seekers. After nodding her satisfaction, she looks up at me with curious gray eyes. “You’re awfully young to be doing this. Were you a roller-coaster kid? The kind who dragged his parents to all the rides?”
I scoff playfully. “Roller Coaster Tycoon, right here. As soon as I turned on the Xbox, I was determined to build the best park.”
She laughs. “That video game brought more people into the business than anything else. Everyone thinks they can do anything once they play a video game. If that were the case, I’d be in the NBA, thanks to NBA 2K18. But you actually can build fantastic rides.”
“Thank you. And I’m sure your jump shot is fantastic, Midge.”
“You’re sweet to say that.” She rises and offers a hand to shake across the conference room table. “By the way, I have a daughter about your age. She’s a math teacher. Lovely young lady.”
“You must be proud of her.”
“Very much so.” She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and clears her throat. “It must be so tough to meet like-minded people. Do you find that to be the case?”
I scratch my jaw. “Not really. I meet engineers all the time.”
“I meant female ones,” she says with an apologetic smile. “Especially smart, pretty, and single ones.”
I wave off her concerns about the field. “Nah. Engineering isn’t a boys’ club like when I was in school. Even in the last few years, there are so many more women coming into it.”
Her brow knits, and she takes a beat. “And you find meeting women is easy?”
I shrug happily. I’m not entirely sure why she’s asking, but her concern is sweet. “Sure. I met a new woman just last night.”
Too bad Finley’s not the one I went looking for, but I’m confident the Cassandra Quest simply swerved down a detour last night, and I’ll find the way back to her soon. I did some more digging last night, made a few calls to her various yoga studios, and found out she’s leading a retreat for her studio somewhere in San Diego. That must mean she’s unplugged for a few days, which gives me time to recalibrate and devise a new plan.
I say goodbye to Midge and hop into my car to return to Hope Falls where I’m staying for a few days to tend to meetings. As I turn on the engine, I noodle again on what went wrong last night, like it’s a math problem I can solve if I find the right formula.
Did I go too big?
Did I plan poorly?
Or were there too many holes in the plan?
Is it possible I don’t truly know Cassie? Sure, it’s been eight years since I knew her, but we were tight in college, even before we dated. We went to the food trucks in Berkeley, hung out at the school’s basketball games, and kissed for the first time after The Social Network, which released my sophomore year. We went out for late-night sushi, and after edamame and hamachi rolls, Cassie and I ventured to the crepe dealer where we shared a cinnamon sugar crepe. We stopped in front of a T-shirt shop on the edge of campus, sharing a cinnamon sugar kiss.
We shared more the night of her dance performance.
First love, first girlfriend, and first time. She was clever and kind, always had a thoughtful word for others, and laughed at my jokes.
Hell, maybe I should simply call Cassie. I’ve spent the last several years bettering myself, fixing the areas where I failed, and shoring things up elsewhere too, just in case.
A few weeks ago, I stumbled across an online ad for the Honey Sticks, her favorite band. They’d broken up, ironically, shortly after we had. But they’d reunited and had gone on tour. The tour was leaving California, but the seed was planted. If the band could get back together, surely we could too. That’s why I decided to go for it again with her, with a nod of sorts to the way I asked her out in the first place.
But maybe I should go simpler. Do the whole standard reconnection thing, like you hear couples talk about when they share how they met. Oh, my college boyfriend reached out to me out of the blue, and naturally we hit it off again, just like old times.
It isn’t my first choice for contacting her, but I guess this is the one option I have now. I open her Facebook profile and tap out a message.
Hey Cassie! Remember me? I haven’t forgotten you either. We had the best time back in the day, and I took your advice to heart. I’m ready now to try again, just like the Honey Sticks. Want to get a bite to eat sometime soon and listen to “Unzipped”? I’ll find a place that has great cinnamon sugar crepes near you. :)
I read it again, pleased with myself. Hell, that’s a damn good note. Except for that stupid smiley face. I’ll delete that right now.
Done.
I re-read it, picturing the reunion playing out. I’ll drive down the coast and meet her for a bite to eat. But as I stare at the draft, something nags at me. This note is a tree that falls in the forest.
Does it make a sound or not?
See, I won’t know, because it’s a one-way deal. I want to see her in person, tal
k to her, have a real-time conversation. I don’t want to fire off a shot in the dark and wonder if she read it, laughed at it, deleted it.
Or worse. What if I send this and my note lands in her spam folder? She’ll never know my intentions, and I’ll never know hers.
That’s an echo in the dark.
I delete the draft.
I back away from the curb and hit play on a new episode of a podcast on the greatest heists of the century, my eyes nearly popping when the host details a daring escape where the thieves made off with ten million dollars in diamonds.
I make my way back to the hotel, and as I drive, my gaze snaps to the side of the road. I yank my car over immediately, checking out the view across the front yards, lined with junk sculptures.
Farmers drive tractors. A rabbit races. A man rides a cow. A mermaid rises from the sea, and a surfer hangs ten.
That is some seriously cool shit. I never know when inspiration might strike for a new ride concept, so I’m always on the lookout. I open the door and wander down the block, where every single yard on the street boasts some sort of life-size cartoonish sculpture made from what looks like recycled junkyard metal.
As I snap photos, I wonder if Finley knows about this block.
Crazy, wacky Finley who likes curiosities. I slide open the screen on my phone.
Tom: Did you know there’s a wicked witch with a muffler for a nose and hair that looks like it’s from an old box spring flying across a front lawn in Hope Falls?
Finley: She’s creepy and beautiful, and she lives next door to the Batmobile. Also, you can sit on any of the sculptures and no one cares.
Unzipped Page 5
