The Last Dreamer

by Barbara Solomon Josselsohn

  But instead, he pushed the room door so that it closed with a harsh, metallic click, and plowed right past her. “Whew! We can finally talk,” he said as he flopped down on the bed with his back against the headboard and his legs outstretched, his shoes still on. “I was scared to say anything in the hallway. Who knows who was listening?”

  “Talk?” Iliana asked. Was that what he wanted to do?

  “Yeah, hey, thanks for looking so tired. It was a great way to get us out of there.”

  “But I am tired.”

  “Oh, I know, and I really appreciate what you’re doing,” he said, getting up and giving her a friendly kiss on the forehead before walking into the center of the room. “We’ll just come up with a plan, real quick, and then you can get some sleep.”

  She paused, trying to figure out what the hell he was talking about. “Jeff, I don’t know—”

  “Yeah, I should have warned you, but I didn’t expect him to be like that. Fuckin’ Terry, man, he’ll never change. He was always that way. I got a close-up, he wanted two. I got three scenes, he needed five. I call him to LA, he writes a song and gets a record producer. What an asshole!”

  It was as though she and Jeff had spent entirely different evenings. “I don’t understand,” she said. “What do you think he wants to do? Make a . . . what? A bigger comeback than you?”

  “I know he does!” Jeff said, pointing a finger at her. “But I’m not going to let him do it. I’m not gonna let him steal this chance from me. I got the idea, I got the writer, I got the book . . . I’m the one who’s gonna make it, not that son of a bitch!”

  “Wait a minute,” she said. “You got the writer?”

  “No, no, no, I just meant I invited you here,” he said, opening his palms toward her. “Don’t start getting all insulted now, this isn’t between you and me, it’s between me and that . . . dick two floors down.”

  She leaned back against the wall, stunned by his outburst. “But I thought you liked each other. I thought you said he was a good guy—”

  “Yeah, well, good guys don’t send you on a wild-goose chase to find newspaper machines while they sneak back to the studio for a two o’clock call. They wrote me out of two scenes that week because Terry told them we were in my car and I was in charge. Even way back then he was scared of how big I could become.” He was pacing around the room now, pumping his fists and talking mostly to himself. “I just need an idea, not to cut him out completely, just to keep him where he belongs—”

  “Jeff,” she said, walking toward him. It scared her to see him like this. He was tearing himself apart over some old jealousies and seemed to be building this rivalry up to absurd proportions right before her eyes. She hadn’t realized how angry he could get, particularly toward this old, sick friend who barely looked like his former self. “Aren’t you overreacting? I mean, he’s not exactly . . . you know, he’s not exactly a Hollywood type anymore, is he?”

  “Shit, Iliana, a good publicist will staple his stomach and throw a wig on his head and in two months he’ll be pushing Adam Levine off the cover of People!” He took her hand and jiggled her arm. “Come on, help me. We’ve got to think. We’ve got to come up with a— Hey, your book! That’s it, you’ll just write it. Write the first chapter tonight!”

  He pulled her to the desk and pushed her into the chair, switched on the desk lamp, and began opening and slamming shut the drawers. “Shit, there’s gotta be paper here,” he continued. “And a pen. There’s always paper and pens in these damn desks!”

  “Jeff, this isn’t going to work—”

  “You’re right, there’s gotta be a faster— What am I thinking? Did you bring a laptop with you? Where the hell is that thing?”

  “Jeff—”

  “Look, you’ll call your editor at the Times in the morning and tell him he has to run the first few pages this week. Like an excerpt—newspapers do that all the time. It’ll build excitement for the book.” He pushed away an armchair and lifted the drapes, ignoring her as he continued to look for a computer case. “We’ll email the chapter first thing—” He grabbed her shoulders as she stood back up. “Please, Iliana, you have to help me. For everything we’ve been through, please.”

  She looked at him, at how desperately his eyes searched hers. She felt bad for him—despite his ego, despite his vanity. He was so, so lost. But even if she had been a top Times reporter who could secure a book deal with a phone call, she could never do what he was asking her to. No writer could whip out a chapter like that. Or at least, no writer who actually cared about writing.

  “Jeff, it’s impossible,” she said. “It doesn’t work this way.”

  He let go of her, and she watched his shoulders sink. Then he sighed and walked back to the bed. He sat down heavily, leaning over so that his elbows were on his knees, and he dropped his head into his hands. “You have no idea how lucky you are,” he said. “You’re a writer, you have talent, you do something that other people can’t do, and they admire you for it. You have that.”

  He paused. “Damn it, I spent a minute becoming Jeff Downs and the rest of my life hoping that people would remember that I’m still him.” He shook his head. “And that he still matters.”

  She watched him, with his head hanging down. He was the one who had no idea. No idea that she knew just how he felt. She remembered emailing Stuart a few weeks back, expecting him to be wowed by her idea, waiting for confirmation that the old Iliana, the successful Iliana, still mattered. The truth was, she was just like Jeff. Even though he had grown up being worshipped and she had grown up worshipping him, they were two of a kind. Even though they had met just weeks ago, she knew him very well. She remembered poring over science books from the library as she sat at the writing desk her father had picked out, trying to get to the bottom of the M&M’s controversy. She truly believed she could shake up the world with that article. She wanted to shake up the world still—that’s what all this mess had been about.

  She walked to the bed and sat next to him. “You are still him,” she said. “And he does still matter.”

  He looked at her. Then before she knew what was happening, he took her face in his hands and kissed her.

  It started off as barely a touch at first, but then he pressed his mouth closer. At first she didn’t stop him. One thought kept running through her head: Jeff Downs is kissing me. JEFF DOWNS IS KISSING ME! It felt like the start of those long, luxurious kisses she had enjoyed back when she was in high school, when kissing was an end in itself and not just a prelude to lovemaking. She imagined the last moments of the auditorium episode of Guitar Dreams, the part where the girl finds out she’s gotten the lead, and she runs down the hallway to embrace Jeff again.

  But Jeff was hardly the romantic kisser Iliana had dreamed he’d be. In fact, he was a disappointing kisser, intrusive and sloppy. His mouth was open too wide, and his big tongue pushed too deep into her mouth. His lips felt thick and droopy, instead of nicely firm and pliable. Just another cosmic reminder that childhood dreams were no reflection of reality. And she’d been foolish to put her stock in them.

  He grasped her shoulders as he pressed his mouth harder against hers. It surprised her how quickly he changed moods—one moment he was devastated, and the next, he was totally absorbed in their kiss. Maybe all men could be like that. Or maybe he hadn’t been that upset at all—maybe he had acted upset to seduce her. She didn’t know. But either way, this was ending right now. She had no desire to sleep with him. She needed to get back home and begin finding a way to matter more, whatever that way turned out to be. And she needed to let him get back to reality, too.

  She pulled her face away. “Jeff, I have to tell you something,” she said, struggling to be articulate as he craned his neck to keep kissing her. “I’m not what you think I am.”

  He reached behind her head to pull her back. “I know, you’re not some superwoman writer, you can’t wr
ite the book tonight. I get it.”

  “No, it’s more than that,” she said, more firmly.

  “It’s okay, I know—”

  “Jeff, listen to me. I don’t have an assignment about you for the Times.”

  He stopped trying to kiss her. “What? Are you mad at me?”

  “No, of course not,” she said. “I just don’t have an assignment.”

  He pulled back a little more, his face registering no emotion but confusion. “What?”

  “I came across an old rerun of Guitar Dreams on TV, and I wanted to write about you,” she said. “So I called your office and said I was trying to write an article, for Business Times, my old magazine, not the New York Times. And Rose misunderstood.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I had to meet you,” she continued. “I thought I could get back into publishing if I wrote a great article about you. And I was feeling like a has-been, and I thought meeting you could help me get back on track, since you were a has-been, but then you weren’t—you reinvented yourself into a business owner.” She gave him a moment to say something, but when he just kept looking at her, she went on. “And what I didn’t realize was that you maybe weren’t happier selling blankets after all. And instead of me learning something from you, you got carried away along with me. And everything just spiraled from there.”

  It was hitting him, she could tell. His eyes narrowed and his jaw grew longer. He looked like he wanted to punch her. He was more frightening now than he had been when he was ranting about Terry, and she was starting to get very scared. When you came right down to it, she didn’t know the real Jeff very well at all. She had no idea what he was capable of. She remembered how Marc spoke about the lawyers he opposed in merger deals, how he always gave them time to talk because silent adversaries will do much more damage to a deal than talkative ones.

  “What—what are you thinking?” she asked.

  “What am I thinking?” Jeff said, staring at her. “What am I thinking? I’m thinking, what the hell is this? That’s what I’m thinking.” His voice grew louder as he stood and ran his hands through his hair. “I’m thinking you’re a lunatic. I’m thinking you’re a fuckin’ stalker, okay? That’s what I’m thinking!”

  His temper was terrifying, because unlike when he was complaining about Terry, now he was angry with her. If he could yell at her like that, what else could he do? Push her, hit her? She didn’t want to get hurt, and she certainly didn’t want to go home with a black eye or broken arm that needed explaining. She thought about trying to leave the room but changed her mind. He was standing between her and the door, and she didn’t want to get any closer.

  “No, I’m not a stalker,” she said, standing up so she’d be nearer to the door if she got the chance to leave. “I’m a writer. A good one. I had a good run with Business Times, you saw all those articles I wrote. And I’ve been sending out queries—article proposals—to different magazines, and I know I can write a great article about you. But I’m not sure . . .” She paused; how was she going to say it?

  “I don’t think what you’ve got here . . . is a book. And even if you did, I couldn’t guarantee I could get it published. I know you thought I had that kind of clout. But the truth is . . . I don’t.”

  He took two steps backward. “I knew it,” he said, holding his head with his hands. “I FUCKING knew it! How could you be a writer for the Times when you didn’t even have one fucking byline? But I believed all your lies! I fucking trusted you!” His voice sounded like an explosion in the quiet room. She resisted the urge to shush him because she thought it would make him even madder. “You were going to write a book about me,” he said, charging at her, shaking his finger in her face. “You were going to make me famous again. You were going to make women want to hear me sing again!”

  She held her palms up defensively. “I never said that. I never said that I could do all that. I only wanted to help.”

  “I knew you were a phony!” he exclaimed, running his hands again through his hair. “I knew it! You never even took out your notebook until I reminded you! You’re no writer, you’re no reporter, you’re . . . you’re . . .” He stopped, grasping for words, pulling at his hair. Then he lunged at the little table near the window and fiercely swept the lamp off it, along with the ice bucket and glasses. They flew into the air and crashed into the wall unit, shattering into pieces. She squeezed her eyes at the sound of the impact. She had never, ever seen such a violent act in real life. The angrier Marc was, the more he withdrew, just like those silent lawyers he dreaded. Even when she had changed her flight and made him madder than ever before, all he had done was throw out a lot of curse words and hang up on her. She didn’t think Marc could ever do what Jeff had just done, and the thought made her wish she were back home, long before she ever saw the Downs Textiles website. Breathing in short, frightened gasps, she ran to the door, but Jeff got there first, and he held it shut.

  “All these weeks, all we talked about? Everything a goddamned lie?”

  “Not everything, just the Times part, and I’m sorry,” she said, starting to cry with fear. “I’m so, so sorry, please let me go.”

  “Let you go? What are you, kidding me?” He grabbed her by the elbow. “I took you into my home! I told you about my dad, my wife, my daughters! I fuckin’ made Terry come down here to meet you! That poor, sick bastard who—”

  “Poor, sick bastard?” she blurted out before she could stop herself. “After all you said—”

  Suddenly there were three sharp knocks on the other side of the door. “Open up!” a man’s voice said. “Security!”

  Iliana looked at Jeff, who was looking back at her, his face softening. She knew that they both knew that they were going to have to work together, at least one last time. He stepped back and opened the door. A small man dressed in a short-sleeve shirt and tie entered the room, followed by two large men with crew cuts, each wearing a shirt with a “Security” patch on the shoulder. The large men approached Jeff, who backed up to the wall.

  The smaller man put his hands on his hips and surveyed the broken glass in the center of the room, then looked at Iliana. “Are you all right?” he said.

  “I’m fine,” she said.

  “We got some reports of shouting and glass breaking.”

  Iliana looked at Jeff, trying to tell him with her eyes that she was going to protect him. “I was carrying . . . I wasn’t looking where I was going, and I bumped into the table and knocked all that over. I’ll pay for it.”

  “You knocked it over?” the man said, as though he didn’t believe it. “You both staying in this room?”

  “No, this is my room,” Iliana said.

  “Where’s your room?” he said to Jeff.

  “Twelfth floor.”

  He turned back to Iliana. “This man bothering you?”

  “No, no, he’s not, sir. It was all an accident. I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.” She looked at Jeff. His lips were pressed together. She could tell that he knew he needed her right now, and he hated it.

  “Do you want me to call the police?”

  “No, really, thank you,” she said, trying to sound calm. “No need at all, really.”

  “Okay, let me see some ID,” the man said. “Both of you.”

  Jeff reached in his back pocket for his wallet, while Iliana picked up her bag from the bed. Please, please, she said to herself. Please let this be over. Please let me go home.

  The man examined their licenses. “Ms. Passing?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Mr. Downs?”

  “Yes,” Jeff said. She thought she saw Jeff’s eyebrows rise, as if even now he was hoping to be recognized.

  “When are you checking out?” the man said.

  “Tomorrow,” Iliana said.

  “Friday,” Jeff added quietly.

  The
man walked toward the door. “I think it’s time you went back to your own room, don’t you?” he said to Jeff. “And any more trouble, I’ll make sure you’re arrested. Got that?”

  “Yeah. Yes, sir,” Jeff said and walked out, his head down.

  Iliana went to the door as the other men also left. There was an older couple in bathrobes standing in the hallway, as well as two blond women who looked like flight attendants. A family with twins about Matthew’s age was peeking out the opposite door. The kids looked shocked.

  So I’m finally the center of attention, Iliana thought to herself wryly as she closed the door. I finally matter. There’s a corridor full of horrified onlookers to prove it.

  Chapter 20

  Iliana hardly slept that night, waking up every hour or so. One twenty, two forty-five, three thirty. Sometimes she’d wake and lie in bed for a few peaceful moments. But then she’d remember where she was and what had happened right there in her room, and the realization would hit her in the stomach, as though she were on an elevator that unexpectedly and forcefully plummeted down.

  She felt as if she were seeing the events of the last few weeks for the first time, and she didn’t like how she appeared. She had been unhappy for a long time, there was no doubt about that, but she had chosen a selfish, childish way to deal with it. She had lied and used a bunch of people she hadn’t even known. Life might not have been exciting, revolving as it did around such tedious questions as what to serve for dinner and how to squeeze in Dara’s orthodontist appointment and still get Matthew to basketball practice on time. And Stuart’s rejection of her original email was pretty harsh. Maybe it was reasonable that she had been vague with Rose on the phone the first day she called. But she should have come clean pretty soon after that. At least then she could have gone ahead and written her article. But now, she felt too guilty to even think about it.

  And what was worse was that she had done so much damage to her marriage. Yes, she had a right to be angry with Marc. He was wrong to order her around, to tell her where to be and when to get there and what to say, to belittle anything she tried to do that didn’t support him and his career. But she made life rough for him, too. He was right—she never would have wanted to leave New York for Cleveland, and if they had ultimately decided to go, she would have brought it up repeatedly as a sign of how much she would give up for him and how little he would give up for her. They had both been so proud of each other when they were younger, so happy for one another’s achievements—for her cover stories, for his assignment to key projects. He had put her professional photo on his credenza for that very reason. When had it all turned to resentment? He asks her to help him out by meeting the wives of some of his bosses, and she interprets this as an insult to her identity; she asks for a couple of days in LA to pursue a dream of her own, and he acts like a child convinced he’s getting the short end of the wishbone.