Dear Dwayne, With Love

by Eliza Gordon

  I’m sorry I borrowed your trademark move.

  But it’s a good move, Rock. Thanks for inventing it.

  Secret, though . . . I did hurt my back a little. There’s concrete under the thin gray industrial carpet. We don’t have to tell this bit to anyone else. Well, I might have to tell Miraculously Beautiful Marco, because he’s going to want to know why I can’t move when I finally get back to the gym.

  And naturally, everyone in my family is freaking the hell out.

  Full disclosure—I’m kinda freaking the hell out too. It’s not great the police were called, and I’m so lucky I didn’t get arrested. That part shocked me the most—when Joan the Crone stepped in on my behalf. I’ve never seen that side of her. She was almost . . . nice?

  But seriously. Why did I go mental like that? I think it’s safe to conclude that I don’t love Trevor. We both know that we’re not The One for the other person. SO WHY DID I FREAK? I guess seeing his dick on someone else’s screen—first of all, who takes pictures like that? In real life? Other than creepy congressmen from New York? Please tell me you’ve never done this. Next, I have no idea how long this has been going on or how involved he and Lisa Rogers are—Lisa and I WORK together! How could she look me in the eye and smile at me and eat the damn doughnuts I bring in for the whole staff, knowing what she’s doing with MY boyfriend? Or un-boyfriend. Or whatever he is. WE HAD A DEAL, Trevor and me. When we’re actively engaged with one another’s body parts we are exclusive. He’s totally violated the treaty.

  This wasn’t love. It was carnal companionship. I’m a modern woman—I can do what I want.

  Including committing battery and assault, it seems.

  They just met a few days ago. Could she have worked that quickly? Why wouldn’t he just fess up and tell me he was into someone else?

  God, I don’t even care. It’s so gross. All of it.

  Viv called this morning to whisper that there were so many inappropriate photos on Lisa’s hard drive (tee-hee-hee . . . hard drive . . .), they’ve called in the IT security team from corporate to deal with it, to see what laws she’s broken. I’m suspended for four weeks, but she’s fired, and likely in some big-time legal trouble.

  And Jerky Jackie is wrong. I do have a few months’ expenses saved, and I’ll be fine until either they fire me for good or until I can get back to work. Maybe in the meantime I’ll find a sweet new job or I’ll finally land that elusive tampon commercial. (I called Lady Macbeth. Told her to submit me for everything that doesn’t involve babies with explosive diarrhea.)

  Trevor was just here, looking as sad-puppy as he could muster while picking up his crap. He honestly would not look me in the eye. And I’m not even bummed about the relationship ending—it’s kind of a relief because now I don’t have to deal with his toenails or his constant judgy BS—but it’s such a betrayal that he handled it the way he did. *shudder* Still gross.

  Anyway.

  This month off will be good.

  No, it will.

  I have to keep telling myself this every few minutes so I don’t have a panic attack. I’ve eaten a lot of doughnuts in the last forty-eight hours because CRISIS, plus Viv brought éclairs last night and we had a sleepover and watched Fast & Furious 7 and San Andreas because she’s awesome and knows how watching your movies makes me feel better. Who can resist you running around California to save your beautiful daughter and wife? If we have a series of massive earthquakes, promise you’ll carry me out of one of the crumbling buildings just like that. I know my fellow feminists would roll their eyes at me for that, but I don’t even care. Alexandra Daddario is LUCKY she has a movie dad like you, and when you finally kissed Carla Gugino in that stolen boat, my heart squeezed with envy.

  Viv obviously doesn’t share my love for heroic leading men, since she slept through most of the carnage, but it was nice of her to hang out. She also brought me a new book from Howie the Pop-Can Man. Geez, word travels fast.

  Here’s some irony—the book he’s given me? Brave New World, by Aldous Huxley. Very funny, Howie. Also, now I know where he got the name for his cat.

  And no, I haven’t told Mommy about the weekend of the competition. I WILL. Just . . . not yet. I told you she wants me to take her to this UFO conference, right? Yeah, at the Oregon Coast—and she wants ME to take a million days off work and pay for the whole shebang because it’s her birthday. Last year on MY birthday? She gave me a bowl of her tomatoes and a (used!) Chicken Soup for the Soul on Dating Over Thirty.

  Yeah. I was turning 29.

  Anyway . . . I’ve had to set up my fax here at the house because she’s convinced the phone lines are bugged, so she’s faxing every few hours to make sure I’m okay. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much Comic Sans in my life. I really need to get her a new font, Dante be damned. What does he know. He’s five, and like Mommy said, probably a future serial killer. Only serial killers like the font Comic Sans.

  (This month off will be good.)

  And OMG, I forgot to tell you that Miraculously Beautiful Marco was a stunt coordinator and one of his stunts killed an actor—his best friend, no less! Whoa. I should offer him my breast—or shoulder—to cry on. That would be really kind of me, don’t you think? AND I can do that now that I’m officially UNATTACHED.

  *shudder*

  Okay, I’m feeling panicky again so I’m going to get dressed and at least walk around the block before I lose the battle and smear these éclairs all over my face. I should go to the gym. Maybe my new gym buddy, Minotaur, will be there (you’d love Minotaur), and I can find some self-worth on the dumbbell rack.

  Wish me luck.

  Single and temporarily unemployed and hoping I’m not terminally pathetic,

  Danielle Candy-Ass Steele

  *SAVE*

  *CLOSE*

  TWENTY-FOUR

  “Did all of this really happen, or are you having a laugh?”

  “It really happened. I got into a fight at work. But in my defense, I was provoked,” I say, already breathless, not even through the first mile. “Did you know . . . that the treadmill was invented in 1818 . . . by one of your countrymen . . . an engineer by the name of Sir William Cubitt . . . as a means of punishment . . . for idle prisoners?”

  Marco flashes that winning smile. “We Britons believe in the power of industry and the sin of sloth.”

  “And I, Danielle Steele with an e, believe in the power of knowing thy enemy.”

  “The treadmill is not your enemy! Say it with me: The treadmill is my friend!”

  I don’t.

  “Miss Danielle, I shouldn’t applaud your sordid behavior, but in this case I will say you do offer a convincing argument. I don’t think I would love it if I saw my girlfriend’s assets on someone else’s computer screen.”

  “He wasn’t technically my boyfriend. We had an agreement.” A treaty.

  “Ah. An un-boyfriend. I get it.”

  Does he have a girlfriend? Or an un-girlfriend? What is that weird emotion when I think of him with a girlfriend? IMDB didn’t list a significant other. And I hardly know Marco, even if he is Miraculously Beautiful. Would it be easier to grunt and wheeze like a geriatric pug if he were gay? Yes. Definitely. If he were gay, I wouldn’t care about the sweat pouring down my thighs and soaking my underarms and my squishy stomach.

  “That’s why . . . I missed a few days . . . I was a little . . . upside down.”

  “And by a few days, you mean a week,” Marco looks at me with one eyebrow raised. “Well, now we have extra time to get you caught up. The clock is ticking.” Marco bounces a pen off his clipboard and then pushes the little button on the treadmill that makes it go faster. I really hate that button.

  And even though Marco looks good enough to eat, he’s not my favorite person right now. He made me weigh in (I’ve gained four pounds—I’m hoping it’s water and poop), and he made me do the fitness assessment again (a dastardly set of step-ups and push-ups and a lot of other things involving the word up that suck a whol
e bunch), and he’s trying to get me excited about this training stuff, but I can’t stop thinking about Bionic Barbie from the shampoo audition and how there’s no way I stand a chance against her . . .

  When I’ve finished the required minutes on the Instrument of Infernal Torture, I follow Marco through the gym as he corrects my form on things I’ve already learned and introduces a few new exercises. He explains his plan for the next four weeks—which includes twice-daily gym visits while I’m off work—and notes that once we’ve reached the six-week mark, we will be going outside for trail and street running to build cardio and endurance.

  Man, I’m tired already.

  As I’m thanking him for the help, a familiar face drifts into my peripheral vision.

  And I cough, choking on my own spit, nearly dropping a kettlebell on Marco’s foot.

  “You all right? Did you hurt something—”

  By now Trevor has closed the distance between us.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” I ask, probably louder than necessary.

  Trevor gives Marco a sheepish look and offers his hand to shake. “Hi, I’m Trevor, Dani’s boyfriend.”

  “Seriously, you are not this stupid.”

  “Can we talk?” he says, lowering his voice.

  “Dani, should I give you a moment?” Marco asks. Before I can beg him not to leave, Trevor steps in.

  “I’m sorry, who are you?”

  “Trevor, this person . . . this whole place”—I gesture theatrically at the area around us—“none of this is your business. I don’t even know how you found me.”

  “I’ll give you a moment,” Marco says, sliding away.

  Trevor stands in front of me, pulling an envelope out of his back pocket. “When you gave me my stuff from your apartment, somehow this found its way into the box.” He holds it up in front of me—the logo on the envelope says everything. It’s from Rock the Tots. “Is that why you’re here, at a gym? Because I am super shocked. I didn’t think you had it in you, to be honest.”

  “Don’t use the word honest, Trevor. It sounds so dirty coming out of your mouth.” I snap the envelope from his fingers. “Oh, and I see you’ve helped yourself and opened it. Wow, thanks.”

  “I was curious.”

  “My business no longer concerns you. Thank you for bringing me my opened mail. Now kindly leave before I have you escorted out.”

  He chuckles under his breath. “By who, your new boyfriend?” He nods in Marco’s direction where he stands talking to Limping Lady near the rack of exercise balls.

  “That’s Marco, and he’s a trainer.”

  “Wow, so you can afford a trainer, being unemployed?”

  I step closer. “My temporary suspension is your fucking fault. So back off.”

  “I will take responsibility for my portion of this situation, but I did not physically attack a coworker in my workplace. You did.” He waggles his eyebrows and places a hand over his heart. “I am touched that you were so jealous as to resort to violence, though.”

  “You’re disgusting,” I hiss. I wish I could physically attack him with this kettlebell, but I think that might kill him, and that would definitely be a felony. “Wait—how did you even find me?”

  He pauses, a teasing smile curling his face that I would’ve once considered cute. Instead, I’m nauseated. “I followed you.”

  I take a step back. “Oh—my god. You’ve gone full creeper.”

  “Come on, Dani, don’t be like that. Let’s talk this out.”

  “Why are you even here?”

  “Well, your mail, for one. It looked important.” He digs into his pocket. “And your apartment key. I didn’t want you to feel like you had to change the locks.” Now that he’s said that, I feel like I should change the locks.

  “You followed me here to give me a letter and a key? You could’ve mailed ’em.”

  “This was faster,” he says. “Come on, Dani, we’re gonna have shows together in the future, and it’ll be weird if we’re not friends.”

  “You should’ve thought about that before you violated the treaty.”

  “I didn’t sleep with her, if that’s what you’re mad about.”

  “No, because emailing someone a picture of your penis is so much less offensive. If you’re willing to do that, what the hell else are you doing that you’re not telling me about?” I lower my voice and step closer. “We had a deal. No STDs, remember?”

  “I’m clean! Is that what you’re worried about?”

  “This is pointless. Can you leave now, please?”

  “Dani . . .” He reaches for my wrist and I yank away.

  “Don’t touch me.” It’s loud enough that we draw the attention of other gymgoers.

  At that moment, Minotaur sidles up on my side of the weight bench. “Hey, Danielle, how’s things?”

  “She’s busy right now, dude,” Trevor says, straightening his shoulders and puffing out his chest. Which is super funny because Minotaur still outweighs Trevor by at least a hundred pounds. It’s like The Rock standing next to Christian Bale when Bale lost all that weight for that movie he did when he . . . lost all that weight.

  “I’m thinking that Danielle is not interested in talking to you right now. So, you can either leave, or I can show you the door,” Minotaur says. His eyes don’t look friendly anymore.

  Trevor’s brief laugh indicates that he’s scared—I know his tell—I also know that he knows his limits. He won’t go up against someone so much bigger . . . or will he? “Is this your new meathead gym boyfriend, Dani? Damn, you move quick.”

  Minotaur grins, but it’s not the hey-man-that-was-funny-ha-ha grin; it’s more like the grin of a chimpanzee who’s showing aggression right before he rips off your arms and beats you to death with the bloodied ends.

  Trevor doesn’t seem to get that he is toying with his own mortality. “Here’s the best part,” he says, digging into his jacket pocket. He flashes a newly printed ID card—for Hollywood Fitness. “I’ve joined up. In fact, I’ve not only joined this gym, I’m competing in this big event that your movie boyfriend is sponsoring. That way, when I win that walk-on role, I can be sure to let The Rock know that you’re a freaky, obsessed fan and he should be restraining-order-level afraid of you.”

  “Why? Why are you doing this?” I know why he’s doing it. Because he can’t stand it for me to do something better than he can. And since he’s already in better shape, if he beats me, he can rub it in my face every time I see him, which will be often if I continue performing at Stage III. (This is why the directors always warn us not to get involved with other theater people. Sigh.)

  “Why not? I love sick children just as much as the next guy.”

  Minotaur raises a confused eyebrow.

  “You never did have an original thought in your head,” I say. But before Trevor can snipe back, Minotaur hops over the weight bench—very nimble for a body the size of a silverback—and gets so close to Trevor’s nose that he flinches like a kindergartner who’s about to lose his jar of bubbles.

  “Listen, little man, I don’t care what the fuck you do when you’re in your car jerking off outside a Chuck E. Cheese, but Danielle is my friend, and no—one—fucks—with—my—friends.” Every beat in that bit is punctuated by Minotaur’s meaty finger jabbing into Trevor’s scrawny chest. That’s definitely gonna leave a mark. “Stay away from her, and stay away from me. Got it?”

  Marco reappears like magic, easing between Minotaur and Trevor, who’s only now stepping back, a smug look on his face as he straightens his jacket, his pale face blotchy with fear.

  “Have we got a problem, gentlemen?” Marco says. “Dani, you all right?”

  “Trevor was just leaving. He’s harassing me, and Minotaur stepped in to defuse the situation.”

  Trevor looks at Marco and sizes him up. “Hope you’re the best trainer money can buy. You’ve got your work cut out for you with that one,” he snipes, nodding at me. “Better cut back on the maple bars, Dani. See yo
u on the course.”

  He spins on his heel and heads toward the door, probably just in time. Anger shimmers off Minotaur like heat above lit birthday candles.

  As soon as the front door has closed behind him, I collapse onto the weight bench. Minotaur’s heavy hand rests on my shoulder for a beat. When I look up at him and mouth “Thanks,” my eyes burn as he offers his broad fist for a bump and then returns to his workout.

  Marco, however, sits down next to me, lightly placing an arm over my hunched shoulders. “I take it that’s the un-boyfriend?”

  I nod. My throat is too tight to talk.

  “If his presence in the gym will make you uncomfortable, we can absolutely revoke his membership. You were here first, and we have a strict no-stalker policy at Hollywood Fitness,” he says. I think he’s kidding? “In all seriousness, if he comes in and says another word to you, we’ll boot him out. He can train elsewhere.”

  Marco stands and thoughtfully tears some paper towel from the roll on the nearest stanchion—my nose is running. “And don’t listen to that gobshite. Honestly, the guy’s a total wanker. You, however, are doing great.” He sits again and nudges his shoulder into mine. “We’re going to keep training hard, and then you can prove to yourself that you are worth more—that you’re far better than that tosser. Because you are—you know that, right?” He smiles, and I have to look at him, despite the fact that my nose is gross and my Maybelline is probably running in black-brown rivulets down each cheek.

  “Thanks. Sorry,” I say.

  “Not at all. My ex is far enough away that I don’t have to worry about her coming in and running her mouth off.” He winks.

  “I’m glad Minotaur stepped in,” I whisper. “I really appreciate that.”