Dear Dwayne, With Love

by Eliza Gordon

  That could work.

  INT. IMPERIAL HEALTH & WELLNESS - DAY

  DWAYNE “THE ROCK” JOHNSON

  Dani . . . don’t you want to win and hang out with me and swap gym stories while we admire my muscles?

  DANIELLE

  Yes, Dwayne. I do. But I barfed. In front of that trainer, who is apparently MY trainer now, Miraculously Beautiful Marco.

  DWAYNE “THE ROCK” JOHNSON

  I’ve barfed tons of times. Get over yourself. Winners barf. Losers quit and hide in their apartments watching Netflix.

  DANIELLE

  But . . . but . . . I like Netflix.

  My buzzing phone skitters on my cluttered desktop. From Lady Macbeth: Don’t be a chickenshit.

  I look around, at the ceiling, behind me, around my cubicle. Is she spying on me?

  Perhaps I’ll get lucky and a zombie apocalypse will infect the world between now and six thirty. Or a meteor. Viv’s husband, Ben, is an astronomy guy—maybe he knows of some meteors that are on a collision course with the planet. I could ask . . . but then I’d have to explain why I’d very much appreciate Earth’s timely destruction in T minus seven hours.

  I’m not getting out of this.

  I will need something to eat that isn’t deep-fried dough drizzled with heavenly icing.

  The first half of the morning I’ve wasted pretending to read the stack of memos management gave birth to overnight regarding personal correspondence at work in the wake of the ongoing dick-pic scandal; now I’m looking over my shoulder to time when I can print recipes for kale-free smoothies without getting caught using the company printer for personal reasons.

  Who knew smoothies were such serious business?

  Broccoli and raw egg? These people have lost their damn minds.

  Common themes: bananas × infinity, protein powder, spinach, kale (no no no), avocado, blueberries, natural peanut butter, Greek yogurt, almond milk.

  I did not know you could milk an almond.

  Nowhere on any of the healthy-smoothie-recipes-to-supercharge-your-workout web pages did I find a single mention of adding a croissant or maple bar to the smoothie.

  This is concerning.

  My desk phone rings—an interoffice call, from Viv’s extension.

  “So, did you make a baby last night?” I ask.

  “Man, I hope so. If not that, we probably made a bladder infection,” she says. “Hey, Trevor is at the front desk.”

  “Oh. What? Why?”

  “Dunno. Didn’t ask him. Were you not expecting him?”

  Was I? Oh god, is he here wanting a lunchtime quickie in his car to make up for me missing Sex Night?

  “He’s talking to Lisa, and she’s leaning. A lot. You might want to intervene.”

  Lisa “Dick-Pic” Rogers wears notoriously low-cut shirts. She thinks the whole world loves her cleavage. Yes, that is my jealous voice speaking because I lack great cleavage, so when I get pulled over for speeding, I leave with a ticket. Lisa (allegedly) never gets tickets.

  “Thanks for the tip.” I hang up, stand, and straighten the pants I hope the Crone doesn’t notice are a little too wrinkled, a little too tight, and hurry through my building to the front counter in the reception area.

  Sure enough, Trevor is red-cheeked and enjoying the view.

  “Trevor,” I say, sliding in a little harder than necessary next to Lisa and her envy-inducing cleavage. “Thanks, Lisa.” Tight smile. She pushes back, flips her impossibly perfect bouncy chocolate curls, and waves with flirty fingers before disappearing into our building. “What’s up?”

  “Can’t I come see my second-favorite actress and whisk her away for lunch?”

  “I’m guessing Angelina Jolie isn’t returning your calls again,” I say. “Trevor, it’s a little early for lunch. You should’ve texted—could’ve saved you a trip.”

  “Actually, I left my Frisbee bag in your trunk last weekend, and we’ve got practice tonight, so I thought I’d pop by while I was between runs.” Despite a degree in theater arts with an emphasis on stagecraft and lighting, Trevor manages his father’s auto parts store. He hates his job, but he loves his dad, which means I listen to him whine about carburetors and solenoids and other car bits when he really just wants to be sitting in a booth over some stage, designing complex light and sound arrangements for live theater.

  The thing that keeps him from driving his dad’s ’68 Cadillac Fleetwood Brougham off a cliff is Stage III, the community theater where we met—he was running the light board for a show I was in. There, they think he’s a lighting genius, whereas his dad thinks he needs to work longer hours and stop putting dents in the company van.

  That first night, he said my bone structure was a pleasure to light. I quipped that all the lighting gods tell me that. Fast-forward three months to too many consecutive nights spent in rehearsals and at the pub our kind tends to frequent, and poof. Coitus.

  “Let me get my keys, and I’ll meet you in the back lot.”

  Except as I’m moving toward my desk, I remember that the motherlode of activewear is still in my trunk—I’m superstitious when I spend a lot of money on stuff that maybe I shouldn’t have spent money on, so I leave it in my car until I’m sure I’m keeping it.

  How am I going to explain this? It’s not often—ever—that I’m found with overflowing bags from Dick’s Sporting Goods.

  Do I tell him? If I do, he’ll make fun of me. He already gives me a ton of shit about my “unhealthy obsession” with The Rock. (Thank goodness he doesn’t know about the blog.) If I tell him I just decided to get in shape, he’ll check my head for fever and insist on drawing up an exercise plan for me that’ll involve a great deal of Frisbee golf, which—no offense—is really, really lame.

  Then again, if I tell him I want to exercise, but I don’t tell him about the competition—because at my core, I am extremely competitive and this is something he might want to get in on, and he’s already in good shape so he could win his division, and then he’ll blow everything with me and DJ . . . I can’t tell him. I can’t let Trevor get in the way of my meeting Mr. Johnson.

  I feel like an Avril Lavigne song—everything’s so complicated—standing with my keys in my hand, The Rock’s unlawfully handsome, slightly sweaty face staring back at me from my cubicle wall.

  Text from Trevor: At UR car. Chop chop, gotta make more delivries.

  I start to correct his spelling again but hold off. My mother says that just because I won the middle school spelling bee every year for three years running, I don’t have to be a jerk about it.

  (Deliveries.)

  Yeah, so I’m a jerk.

  I hustle through the as-yet mostly empty cafeteria and out through the back door, checking to make sure the Crone isn’t lying in wait as I am doing something personal when I should be working. Trevor is leaning against Flex Kavana’s trunk, positioned so there’s not even an opportunity for me to surreptitiously stow the bags before he gets a good look at ’em.

  As I unlock the trunk, he moves in behind me and whispers in my ear. “We could grab a quickie in the delivery van.”

  I don’t let him see the wan smile his offer inspires. I ease the trunk open and reach in for his bag as quick as I can, hoping he won’t see my purchases.

  “Hey—what’s all that?”

  “Oh, nothing. I just picked up a few things.”

  “From Dick’s? What, are you sick?” He starts to grab at the bags, but I step in.

  Lie, Danielle. “Umm . . .” Lie faster. “Viv and I are going to start walking a few times a week after work, now that the weather is getting nice again.”

  “Oh—yeah, that would be good. Although you know I like a little junk in your flesh trunk,” he says, eyebrows quirking in what I think is supposed to be a seductive expression but mostly looks a little like a petit mal seizure. I turn to squish the bags down nice and flat as he grabs a handful of my butt.

  I slap his hand away, reminding him that there are CCTV cameras all over this l
ot.

  “So? You hate your job.”

  “I also hate being homeless.” I slam the trunk, relieved the bags are out of view.

  “My roommate is moving out end of the month. You could have his room—we could split the rent,” he says, his voice husky, “and then every night could be Sex Night.”

  “Mmm. Tempting.” I try to slide out from under him, as I’m pinned between Trevor and the back end of my car, but he puts an arm in my way.

  “Dani . . . you okay, girl?” A voice from across the lot. Howie moves toward us tentatively, his cart momentarily abandoned, a short-haired tabby kitten with giant green eyes trotting happily beside him in a black harness and neon-pink leash. Even though he lives outside, Howie’s jeans and the black duster he wears year-round are always clean. He says it doesn’t take much to use a Laundromat. He hasn’t shaved in a while, and his gray-white hair floofs out under the sides of his knitted cap. If I didn’t know him, his lanky six-three frame might freak me out a little.

  “It’s okay, Howie. He’s a friend.”

  Trevor’s head whips toward me. “A friend?”

  I clear my throat as Howie stops about five feet away. “Howie, this is Trevor. Trevor, this is Howie and his sweet little girl, Aldous.”

  Howie picks up the kitten, cradles her atop his arm.

  “Isn’t Aldous a boy’s name?” Trevor says, but as soon as he touches the kitten, his smart-ass demeanor disappears. Trevor loves animals. He runs a hand down Aldous’s tiny back and smiles—a real smile, no pretense. “She’s got quite the little motor, doesn’t she?” Why can’t that boyish smile be the Trevor I see all the time? It’s those rare glimpses of the Trevor under all the bullshit—that’s the guy I started hanging out with. That’s the Trevor who pets puppies and feeds feral cats and babysits his nephews and changes the oil on Mommy’s car because she doesn’t trust Jiffy Lube. It’s that softer side of his personality that has kept me from walking away for good. Unfortunately, that softer side only makes the occasional appearance.

  “She’s gotten so much bigger since I last saw her!” I say.

  “She likes your friend, Dani.” Howie smiles, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

  “So, you’re the window-washer guy?” Trevor says. Aaaaand we’re back to jerky Trevor.

  I smack his arm. I’ve told him about Howie, about how freaking smart he is. And Trevor chooses to lead with that?

  Howie snorts under his breath, a subtle shake of his head. “As long as you’re okay, Dani.” He gives Trevor a look that says so much—I might have confided in Howie at one point the lack of roots extending from this relationship. I’m glad he doesn’t mention it.

  “Oh, I finished Titus Andronicus,” I say. “You’re right. Titus got the shaft. And I’m never eating potpie again.”

  “Well, as long as you don’t make the pies with the flesh of your enemy’s sons, it could be tasty,” Howie teases.

  I give Aldous a final cheek rub. Howie waves and walks back toward his cart.

  “You didn’t have to belittle him like that. Dude is smarter than both of us put together.”

  “Which is why he lives out of a stolen Whole Foods cart?”

  “You’re so compassionate,” I say, pushing his arm away so I can go back inside.

  “I hope he’s at least feeding that poor cat.” He reaches down for a kiss, but I turn my head and offer him a cheek. He smells like motor oil.

  “Have fun tonight with your Frisbees. Gotta run. Lots of claims to process.”

  “Are we still on for tomorrow night?” That eyebrow waggle was cute, like, for the first three months. Now I want to shave them off while he’s sleeping. Really, the only man alive who should do the eyebrow thing is . . . yeah, you know. (But seriously, he’s so good at it.)

  “I might do some overtime. We’re really backed up in there, so I’ll text you and let you know what the plan is.” He opens his mouth to protest, his face edging toward crestfallen, but I have to get inside before he reminds me about how blue his testicles get when I cancel our carnal collaborations. (“It’s a bona fide medical condition, Danielle,” he says to the girl who spends her days processing claims for bona fide medical conditions. He’s not exactly wrong; it’s called epididymal hypertension and can most often be relieved with one’s dominant hand, some lube, and a magazine of choice.)

  “I’ll call you later—”

  The heavy fire door clicks closed before he can finish.

  What is wrong with me?

  Why am I being such a dick? Trevor isn’t a bad guy. He brings me soup when I’m sick and feeds Hobbs when I forget; he’s friendly to my mother and sisters and educates himself about politics and current events; he has a soft spot for critters; he understands the weird acting life; he has a stable family background and isn’t into anything kinkier than the occasional whipped cream or ice cubes; and he sometimes buys Girl Scout Cookies from first graders who set up in front of Target . . .

  Maybe it’s how condescending he can be with people who are situated differently from him.

  Or how he says that certain costumes I wear onstage make me look heavier than I am.

  Or how he says my love for Dwayne Johnson is unhealthy and unrealistic, that “no man is that perfect.”

  Or how sometimes he wants me to call him “Daddy,” even though that totally creeps me out.

  Or how he tries to give me acting advice when he’s working a play I’m in, even though he’s a lighting tech and I’m the actor.

  And the toenails. Oh my god, the toenails.

  Why do I get into unfulfilling relationships with men who don’t make my heart race? Georgette said she knew Samuel was the one on their first date. She said he’s all she could think about. He still does romantic things for her—a flower on her pillow, Starbucks runs on Saturday mornings, takes the kids so she can have a hot bath, has dinner sent to the house when he works late . . . She says by my age, she’d long since found her Prince Charming. And she’s not shy about telling me why I haven’t found mine. Apparently, I fear being alone.

  INT. IMPERIAL HEALTH & WELLNESS - AFTERNOON

  DWAYNE “THE ROCK” JOHNSON

  Aw, come on, Dani. You do realize that Trevor probably has his own list for you. Why do you stay with the guy if he’s so annoying?

  DANIELLE

  Didn’t you hear what Georgette said?

  DWAYNE “THE ROCK” JOHNSON

  Are you afraid of being alone?

  DANIELLE

  No. I can be alone. I like spending time alone. Besides, it’s not like Trevor is down on one knee professing his undying love for me either.

  DWAYNE “THE ROCK” JOHNSON

  Would you want that?

  DANIELLE

  No . . .

  DWAYNE “THE ROCK” JOHNSON

  Then why not cut the guy loose?

  DANIELLE

  (feeling cornered)

  Seriously, what is the point of a relationship anyway? You find someone you don’t want to murder, and you marry them because you’re afraid your biological clock is going to leak battery acid all over the stash of eggs you were born with? Isn’t my mother enough of an example for you? The odds aren’t in my favor here.

  Plus, I don’t even want kids. Georgette has three, and all she talks about is how her hair is falling out and she can’t poop alone and how her vagina has lost its pep. I don’t want my vagina to lose her pep. I have it on good authority my group health insurance won’t cover fixing that.

  DWAYNE “THE ROCK” JOHNSON

  Well, your vagina and its pep are your own business, but it seems to me you’re wrestling with some pretty strong insecurities here, both within your own development as a responsible adult and as a willing partner in an intimate relationship. This is likely stemming from your father’s departure when you were at an impressionable age.

  DANIELLE

  I like how you worked the word wrestling into that. Also, you sound like a self-help book.

  DWAYNE “THE R
OCK” JOHNSON

  I listen to audiobooks when I’m traveling. I’m all about self-improvement, ya know. Plus, kids are awesome. You don’t want kids?

  DANIELLE

  (bites into a warm Krispy Kreme doughnut)

  Rock, it’s like you don’t know me at all.

  THIRTEEN

  From:Georgette H. Steele-Preston

  To:Danielle E. Steele

  Subject: Worr*ed about Mommy . . .

  Hey, Dan* . . .

  F*rst—the aster*sks are *n place of the m*ss*ng vowel (A-E-*-O-U) because Dante sp*lled pomegranate ju*ce on the computer keyboard th*s morn*ng and now the * won’t work and * am not r*sk*ng another tr*p to the Apple Store w*th these three *n tow. You should see what Dante d*d to the d*splay *Pads last t*me. Samuel sa*d he’d p*ck up a new one for me, but you know how much he works . . . * would call you but the house phone has gone m*ss*ng aga*n and my cell phone *s currently *n a Tupperware of r*ce. Don’t ask.

  Thank baby Jesus your ema*l *s saved *n my address book. ;)

  Anyway, * saw Jack*e yesterday to get a ref*ll of my b*rth control p*lls (she gets them for me from her off*ce drug rep—saves me a ton!) and *t seems Mommy *s aga*n *nvolved *n some mult*level market*ng scheme. Mrs. Jenk*ns from next door called Jack*e at her off*ce because Mommy’s mak*ng her way around the ne*ghborhood try*ng to sell some sort of mag*c “wand” allegedly *nfused w*th moon dust, granulated crystals, and other chopped-up rocks and m*nerals that are supposed to cure *llness and *ncrease the nutr*t*onal value of food. She really upset Mrs. Jenk*ns, whose husband *s f*ght*ng cancer, so we have to step *n.

  S*gh.

  We’re meet*ng th*s weekend for d*nner at Mommy’s—Saturday, *f you’re not busy—under the gu*se of talk*ng about her 60th, but really Jack*e and * th*nk she needs another *ntervent*on. Maybe don’t br*ng the boyfr*end du jour? Could get ugly.

  Gotta go. Mary May just fed the dog her yogurt and the dog *s lactose *ntolerant so now he’s puk*ng on the carpet.

  * love my l*fe.

  * love my l*fe.