Without thinking, I opened the catalog to peruse next season’s decorations.
And now I’m sitting in the corner of my bedroom, cheeks wet from tears, feeling like I’ve just been punched in the gut.
Because the candy made me miss him, which made me want to hug him, which made me take down his urn from my bookshelf, because (stupidly) I thought hugging the urn might feel the same. Which, of course, it didn’t.
And also now I feel guilty, because I’m not even supposed to have the urn.
I didn’t steal it from his grave or anything. I mean, I totally would have done that—I was nuts right after he died—but my parents have been divorced forever and I’m an only child, so I got the urn.
I also had very specific instructions in his will that I have chosen to ignore. Hey, it’s not the first time he ever gave me an order I skirted around.
My dad had wanted his ashes scattered over the Pacific Ocean. He wanted me to take his old kayak, which he had made from a kit, out into his favorite harbor, then past the rocks making up the jetty, and over to a particular buoy where we met a seal one day that tried to jump into our boat. I should have scattered the ashes months ago. But I just can’t part with them yet.
In my head, I can hear my dad say, “Don’t be a martyr. That’s not me in there.” Dad put himself through college by working at a mortuary, and he always thought people spent way too much time, money, and emotional energy on the remains of a body. He used to tell me that the body was the vessel that housed our soul, and to give any significance to a body would be like going to someone’s old house once they had moved out: They were already long gone. And the house was just a house.
I look down at the wooden urn and decide to open the top. Maybe if I just kept, like, a baggie’s worth and scattered the rest of his ashes, Dad would be okay with that.
The top won’t budge. I get my fingernails under the lip and really yank. Nothing. Okay, just make your hands into a claw and really pull upward …
I flip the entire urn up several feet into the air, then cover my hands over my head instinctively to shield myself when what goes up inevitably comes crashing back down, in this case onto my hardwood floor.
Well, it’s not the most elegant way to open the damn thing, but at least it’s done. I grab the top and … it’s still completely sealed. What did they use on this thing? Krazy Glue?
I walk to our kitchen, pull a flat-head screwdriver from our toolbox, and try to pry the top open. Nothing. I grab the hammer from the box and bang it into the screwdriver, trying to chisel underneath the lid. Still nothing. The ashes might as well be encased in Fort Knox.
Okay, clearly I need to look at the problem from another angle.
Dad used to say that if you can’t find the solution to your problem, it’s because you’re seeing the wrong problem. I turn over the urn to see how much glue they used on the base. Aha! The bottom is held together with six screws. I retrieve a Phillips head and quickly begin to unscrew. Two minutes later, I have the base off. Success.
But when I open it, it’s just a bag. Nothing special. Ashes stuffed into a bag, by a guy who does this every day. And the ashes aren’t gray. I always thought people’s ashes would be gray—like cigar ashes. But Dad’s are white. They look like the white sand at a beach in Hawaii my parents took me to before they divorced and everything got messy.
Suddenly weak, I slide down to the kitchen floor and begin crying in the corner. Nat is out cold on Vicodin, so I’m by myself, wondering how I’m ever going to get through this. When does losing a parent quit hurting?
There’s this person who’s supposed to be around no matter what. No matter what! How can I continue to live without the person I can’t live without?
Ironically, the guy I most want to call right now is Dad. He’d make me feel better. He’d say the perfect thing. Something to let me know that this gut-wrenching feeling is temporary. That I will get through it. That I love and am loved by lots of people, and how lucky I am that I have at least ten people I could call right now who’d be here in a heartbeat.
Or something like that. The truth is, I know that’s what I’m saying to myself. And it’s not making me feel better. I have no idea what my dad would say.
My phone beeps a text. I wipe my tears from my face and walk into the living room to pick it up.
None of this is getting decided today. You’ve already done way beyond what I could have expected from you this soon. Take the rest of the day off. Inspiration for how to get through this will come to you.
What the …
That’s exactly what Dad would say.
Except the text is from Joe. How would Joe know what’s going on with me?
I text back:
Truer words were never spoken. But I have a feeling your text was not meant for me.
Crap. I’m so sorry. That was for my director of photography, Holly. The lighting on this next commercial is very tricky because it’s all supposed to be one shot. I’m so sorry.
You have a woman DP?
Um … yeah.
That’s very cool. I don’t know a lot of men who think to hire women for that job.
Joe doesn’t write back for a minute or so, and I wonder if my text came off as critical. But finally he comes back to say:
I have a woman editor too. As I told you before, I’m really not as much of a dick as I was to you that day.
And suddenly, I hear my father, as though he’s whispering in my ear, say, “Ask for help.”
Something I remember my dad saying one night, sitting in his favorite chair, wearing his favorite tattered white bathrobe: “The greatest gift we can give other people is to accept their help. People love feeling needed.”
I pick up the phone and dial. Joe answers on the first ring. “Hey,” he says. “How’s my favorite shark diver?”
I sniff, trying to steady my voice so I don’t sound like I’ve been crying. “Ummmm … Okay, I guess. Do you have time for lunch?”
“Are you crying?” Joe asks, his voice soft.
“Yes and no. I … Actually, more yes. I’m having a bad day.”
“I’ll be right over.”
Soon after, I hear my doorbell chime. I open the door to see Joe. He takes one look at my tear-stained face, juts out his bottom lip to make a sad face, and puts out his arms. I walk in for a hug. “I’m an idiot,” I tell him sadly.
“No, you’re not.”
“You haven’t seen what I’ve done to his ashes.”
“Did you accidentally drop them onto your carpet?” he asks quietly.
“No.”
“Well, then, you’re ahead of my mom,” he says.
I pull away from him. “Can I show you something?”
“Yeah.”
“I’ll warn you. This is the worst kind of freak flag to have waving. If you want to just leave after this, I totally understand.”
“Please. Where would I go?”
I take him by the hand and walk him over to Dad’s now upside-down urn in the middle of the floor, a sealed, clear plastic bag of ashes resting next to it. “It’s awful, right?”
“Your dad dying suddenly was awful. This … this is normal.”
I can’t breathe and almost start crying again. To show someone the worst possible side of me, the crazy, and have him not flinch? To just accept it? What do you say to that kind of acceptance? “I’m not normal,” I tell him.
“No, in many ways, you’re not. You’re gorgeous, you’re smart, and you could pass for twenty-five, which for those of us with receding hairlines and crow’s-feet borders on annoying. But let me turn this around. If you were at my house, and you saw this in the middle of my floor, would you think I was an idiot?”
“No, of course not,” I answer.
“Would you secretly be planning your escape?” he continues.
I shake my head vigorously from side to side …
“You said ‘freak flag,’” he continues. “So I guess you’d think I was a real loser fo
r still caring so much about—”
“No.”
“Then why won’t you treat yourself as well as you’d treat me?” he asks.
I smile, then shrug. “Habit?”
Joe gives me another hug, then kisses my forehead. He looks me in the eyes and assures me, “You’re right on track. You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be in the process. Healing is messy. It’s not only okay to be a mess, I’d think you were a freak if you weren’t. So, are you more in a salad or a burger mood?”
“Actually, I could really go for nachos,” I tell him honestly. “Is that weird?”
“Wouldn’t it be fantastic if that was the weirdest thing about you?” He takes my hand and says, “Come on. I know the best place in town for nachos. It’s a little hole-in-wall Mexican place in East Hollywood.”
I stop suddenly. “Oh, God. I totally forgot. East Hollywood reminds me of West Hollywood, which reminds me … Today’s Monday. Do you have any interest in going to drag queen bingo with me tonight? It’s really fun, and it’s for charity, and I told my friend I’d go.”
Joe smiles. “That sounds like a blast. I’d love to.”
“Really?” I say, suddenly feeling … better. Not perfect, but better. “Okay, let me grab my purse.”
And he took me for nachos, and he bought me a really big hot fudge sundae for dessert, and he talked to me about everything and nothing for three hours. Which was exactly what I needed.
Chapter Forty-six
JESSIE
I spent all day Monday shopping, hitting twelve stores, and finally recklessly splurging on a sexy, super-tight, purple velvet evening gown. It’s sleeveless. It has a slit that goes so far up the leg that I needed an above-the-knee wax. It’s so tight I needed to buy a bustier just to cinch my waist enough to fit into it. It’s made for a Bond Girl. It’s so not me.
I fucking love it.
I had texted Giovanni my address and am not surprised when he arrives at my door promptly at five. I open the door to a dream. He looks fantastic. Dark tuxedo, black tie, perfectly polished shoes—you know the drill.
He walks in, clearly troubled, and not noticing me in the least.
“Can I ask you a question?” he says as he turns around. Then his jaw drops. “Wow. You look stunning.”
Suddenly, I’m nauseous. Oh, my God, he’s hot. I forgot how hot he is. What am I doing? I can’t breathe. “So do you,” I manage to stammer out without throwing up on him.
He stares at me for a minute, and all I can think about is straddling him. “So what happened?” I ask.
“I got the strangest text from Natasha, and I think she might be breaking up with me.”
Inside, I’m bursting with hope: Really? Yaaaayyyyy!!!! Now nothing will be my fault. While the outside of me assures Giovanni, “Noooo, that’s impossible. She would never do that.”
“She left me these weird messages in the middle of the night last night, when I was asleep. I have played them at least five times each, and for the life of me, I don’t know what she meant.” He puts out his hand. “Look at me. I’m shaking a little.”
I take his hand, which feels warm and soft, albeit a little jittery. I love these hands. I want these hands all over my …
“You’re shaking too,” Giovanni says, confused.
“Me? Oh, no. That’s just … ummm … I haven’t eaten today because I … wanted to fit into this dress. I figured I’d eat at the event.”
“Oh, of course. I’m so sorry. We should go. Get some food into you.”
“You know what? I actually have some cheese and crackers here. And wine. And you look like you could use a glass of wine. So why don’t I take your jacket…” I say, slowly removing his tuxedo jacket, careful to brush my hands against his perfect chest, then up over his shoulders, then down his exquisite arms. “And we’ll hang out for a bit, and you can play me the messages.”
Our lips are inches from each other. He stares at me, clearly knowing my game. I am hitting on him, and even the densest of men couldn’t miss it.
Giovanni seems to snap out of the brief trance I put him in. “Okay. That’s not a bad idea. What can I help with?”
Aaannnddd … maybe he’s not perfect. Maybe he actually is the densest man on the planet.
“Nothing,” I tell him, trying to hide my disappointment as I make my way into my kitchen. “I have pretty much everything you sell. What wine would you like?”
“Let’s do the Super Tuscan.” He pulls out his phone. “Can I play you her messages?”
“Sure,” I say, getting out two glasses and a corkscrew.
As I open and pour the wine, I hear Nat sounding … well, high, actually.
“Hey, it’s me,” Nat slurs. “This Vicodin has made me really woozy. That’s why I don’t like to take it. Where are my consonants? Can you understand me? I feel like my s’s sound weird. Sssssssss … yeah, okay, that’s good. Anyway I just woke up and I’ve been thinking about you and … I don’t know. So many women at the bar talk about how cute you are. Jessie thinks you’re cute. I think you’re cute too. You should be with someone like Jessie, though.”
Wait, what’s that? I want to ask him to hit Repeat.
“She has her shit together,” Nat prattles on. “I don’t have my shit together. I mean, I am a total mess. You don’t see me picking out rings and houses. She even has a 401(k) that she SET UP HERSELF!” Then Nat’s yelling voice comes back down to a normal range. “I have a shoe box of receipts I give to her every year at tax time called ‘receipts of all sorts.’ I think I’m better in bed, though. Well, I guess you don’t know that yet.”
Wait—she hasn’t slept with him? I should not be immediately gleeful. But, boy, “gleeful” is a good word. I finish pouring the wine and turn to my refrigerator to get cheese.
Nat continues. “But trust me, I am. Although not on Vicodin … I think I told you, this stuff’s weird, but Chris made me take it, and now I’m awake and I have to tell you … You know if you told someone your deepest darkest secret, or maybe just like this terrible thing you did, you’re sure they’d go away. Well, I guess the good guys, they figure it out anyway, even though you think you’re being clever, but you’re not. And then they stay. Which is weird! Although I don’t know why they stay, I wouldn’t stay. ’Cuz you could do so much better than me. I mean, you know how people say it’s not you, it’s me. But it really is me. You deserve so much better than me.”
His machine cuts her off. He looks over to me. “So you’ve known her a lot longer than me. Did she just break up with me?”
“Well…” I hedge. I unwrap the Brie, careful to avoid eye contact. “You should probably ask her.”
He nods. “Okay. You’re right.” As I put the cheese on a plate and pull out some water crackers, he asks, “Can I play her other message?”
“Sure.”
He hits Play, and we’re back to Nat. “Seriously, if someone I wanted wanted someone else, why would I stay? Wish is what I’m thinking.”
I think she meant “which” there.
“Oh, but you’re so cute, though. And NICE. So nice. Men who look like you don’t have to be so nice. I mean, granted I think I’m smarter, but you’re so much nicer. Oh, it’s late. I need to go back to bed. Alone. And I think I need crackers. Or In-N-Out. So, you know, love, peace, and all that. We’re in agreement, right? I wouldn’t want to text. That would be rude.”
And she hangs up.
Giovanni puts out his hands. “Well?”
“Well,” I begin cautiously, handing him his glass of wine, then taking my glass and the plate of cheese and crackers out to my living room. “I’ll admit, if I were to guess, it sounds like maybe it’s a breakup.”
“You think?” Giovanni asks, taking both of our wineglasses and following me to my couch. We sit down.
I take a nervous glug of wine. “I can’t tell you for sure. But I’ve know Nat a really long time and … if it’s not a breakup, it’s a hint that one is coming.”
Giovann
i nods. Also takes a rather large swallow of his wine. “Can I confess something to you?”
“You’re horribly uncomfortable in that tie. You feel like you’re choking.”
“Well, yes, but…”
“Oh, feel free to loosen it, then. We don’t have to be anywhere for a few hours.”
He does the ever so slightest double take, then says, “Thank you.” He loosens his tie and undoes his top button.
I wonder if Nat’s Chris is right, the trick to getting a man to strip really is just asking.
“This is a horrible thing to say,” Giovanni tells me, “but if she were breaking up with me, I think it would actually be a relief.”
“Oh. Wow. Okay.”
“I mean Nat is great. I adore her. She’s beautiful and smart and funny and well read and an amazing—”
“Okay!” I interrupt loudly. “Nat’s perfect. Got it.”
“She is. She’s awesome. But I just don’t see myself ever taking her to Santa Barbara for dinner.”
“Really?” I ask, my voice getting a little too breathy and high.
“Really,” he confirms. Giovanni moves his face close to me. “I probably shouldn’t … kiss anyone before I know, for sure, that she’s broken up with me, though.”
Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me. “Probably not,” I agree.
“Are you getting warm?” he asks.
“Ummm. A little.”
“Feel free to loosen this,” he says, putting his arm behind me and slowly unzipping the back of my dress. “Because we don’t have to be anywhere for a few hours.”
He zips down to the small of my back, and the top of my dress falls to reveal my dark purple bustier. Giovanni begins slowly licking my neck.
“I’m pretty sure you’re just making things even hotter in here,” I tell him.
And that’s all I say for quite a while.
* * *
Many hours later, we are both naked in my bed, sitting with the plate of Brie between us, finally eating. I’m starving. But I cannot remember the last time I felt so satiated and happy. “We need more crackers,” I tell Giovanni.
“Yeah, and maybe some Thai food,” he suggests.
Love the Wine You're With Page 27
