Dear Dwayne, With Love

by Eliza Gordon

  As soon as the curtain swooshes closed after her, I lean my elbows on the bedside, Marco’s hand still wrapped in mine. “You didn’t ask her about the armadillo,” I scold.

  “I would have, but she had sharp instruments poking about my lacerated flesh. And seeing how she reacted to your attempt at comedy . . .”

  “Some people need to get out more.”

  The curtain moves aside and the doctor steps in—and I about pee my pants. “Dani?”

  “Oh! Jake. I thought you worked in Beaverton.”

  Marco looks back and forth between the doctor and me, question marks all over his face.

  “Good to see you! Though not under the best circumstances. Small world, huh?” the doc says.

  “Marco Turner, this is Dr. Jake Halvorsen—he’s my sister Jackie’s boyfriend.”

  “Fiancé,” Jake corrects. “And I did work in Beaverton, but Providence is closer to our new place, so I transferred. Hey, did Jackie tell you about my man cave?” Before waiting for me to answer, he offers a hand to Marco, which means I have to let it go. “So nice to meet a friend of Dani’s. Wait—” Jake squints at Marco, then looks back at me and, oh shit, I know what’s coming, and even though my eyes widen to saucer dimensions, I can’t stop him in time. “Daaaaani, is this the Marco you swooned about in your—”

  “Okay, Jake, thank you so much. Can you just not talk, and maybe stitch up Marco’s hand sometime tonight?”

  Jake laughs heartily and angles himself closer to Marco, whose face is now awash in amusement. “Dude, the Steele sisters are insane. Hold on for a wild ride.”

  “So I’m learning,” Marco says, laughing as he turns and lifts an eyebrow at me.

  “Jake. Seriously. Shut up.”

  Marco laughs louder.

  Dr. Halvorsen winks, and then pulls a rolling stool over to the side table supporting Marco’s hand. He thankfully sets to work, numbing the incision and poking and prodding, all while making small talk about his dumb man cave so that Marco doesn’t focus too heavily on the pain he’s surely enduring. As obnoxious as Jake can be sometimes, his bedside manner is commendable.

  When the last stitch is in and Jake is confident there is no tendon damage, he pulls off his gloves and pushes the lamp away. “The nurse will come in and bandage you up and give you some prescriptions to get filled. Keep the hand elevated if you can, and see your family doctor for a recheck in about ten days, sooner if there are any signs of infection, yeah?” Marco nods. Jake reaches for another handshake “I hope I get to see you again, though not for medical intervention—maybe at Dani’s thing with The Rock? I seriously love that dude.”

  “Who doesn’t?” Marco says. “Thanks so much for your expert assistance this evening. Hardly felt a thing.”

  Jake turns to me. “And you, stay off the Internet. Doctor’s orders.”

  “Smart-ass.” I smack his arm as he slips out.

  “Everyone really did read that blog, didn’t they . . . ?” Marco says.

  I snort. “Whatever. Losers, every one of them.”

  “Did you really swoon about me?” he says, the devil in his smile.

  “Another word about it and I’ll reopen those stitches.”

  He laughs loudly, the sound a pleasing contrast to the moaning coming from the next bed over, but my face is burning so hot, I fear the cotton privacy curtains will catch fire.

  I pull my phone out to check the time and avoid eye contact for a moment, but as I plop it back into my purse’s zippered pocket, I realize I still have Marco’s birthday present.

  “Hey, almost forgot,” I say, pulling it out.

  “For me?”

  “I would’ve given it to you at the pub, but then I felt dumb because no one else seemed to have brought presents, and then you went and played hero . . .”

  “You really shouldn’t have. Especially since you’ve sacrificed your whole evening here. Sorry about that.”

  “You were saving me, remember?”

  He blushes. “Should I open it now?”

  “Please do.”

  He sits forward and wedges the package between his knees, tearing at the birthday cake–decorated paper with his right hand.

  “Are you even kidding me?” he says, cracking up, holding the aluminum water bottle printed all over with thumbnail-size John Cena faces. “This is perfect.”

  “You’re still a blasphemer. But at least you’ll stay hydrated.”

  “I’m so bringing this to the competition. Maybe I can get The Rock to autograph it for me,” he teases as I wad the discarded wrapping paper into a ball. “Thank you so much, Dani.” He pulls me up by my wrist and hugs me with his good arm. He smells so good . . . I never want to let go. I resist the urge to climb onto the bed next to him and curl against his side.

  When he releases, our faces are so close together, but I don’t know what to do, so I again sit in the hard plastic chair, my pulse pounding in my ears.

  “Thank you for a fantastic birthday,” he says, grinning.

  I meet his smile with one of my own, so wide my cheeks ache. “Next time I’ll just bring cupcakes.”

  FIFTY

  May 20, 2016

  Dear Dwayne Johnson,

  I AM NOT FALLING FOR MY TRAINER. That is so cliché.

  NO I’M NOT.

  NO. NO. NO.

  Shit. Yes, I am.

  YES I AM IT’S A DONE DEAL OH GOD HE’S SO DREAMY.

  Hopelessly a goner,

  Danielle Sucker-Punched-by-Cupid Steele

  FIFTY-ONE

  The next few weeks dissolve into a blissful blur—happily predictable, which is the way I like it. Get up, eat protein, go to the gym, come home, eat more protein, play with Aldous, go to auditions where far too many casting assistants and directors have read my blog and have all sorts of witty, unsolicited opinions, go to acting class, apply for new jobs I will probably hate, but food is expensive and unemployment benefits don’t last forever, not get the jobs I do apply for (including the pediatrician’s office manager job), and then go to the gym for a second workout, because staying away from Marcellus Turner and his gorgeous knees is impossible.

  Three days a week, Marco and I meet up to run in Forest Park; three days a week I get a new story about his beloved younger brother (an accountant in London), his Irish gran, or his hardworking parents who aren’t at all adventurous or crazy; about how he does miss his LA life now and again, agreeing wholeheartedly as we reminisce about the family-like atmosphere on movies and projects that pulls you back again and again, even when the hours are long and the shoots are grueling; about the nutty things he and his mates did growing up, from lying about their ages so they could go skydiving to streaking at football (soccer) games to helping arrange outlandish marriage proposals for the smitten among their tribe. His stories repeatedly cement for me that not only is Marco nuts, but he cares—deeply—for his friends and family, and he will do anything for them.

  Which I’m certain makes his friend David’s death so much harder to bear.

  Today, however, I won’t be graced with a story. We’re skipping trail running in Forest Park in favor of spreading sand and building the course for the upcoming “Team Dani’s Rockin’ Obstacle Smackdown.”

  When I arrive at Hollywood Fitness, I head around to the back of the building, where I’m met with cheers and high fives from all my buddies—Minotaur, the Limping Lady, Alex the Vet, Handstand Man, Trish with Muscles, the rest of the regulars—all of them wearing Team Dani T-shirts, all of them with shovels in hand as we wait for the ginormous dump truck to drop its load of sand.

  I knew Marco’s plans were awesome, but this . . . I’m completely floored. We’ve spent so much time training in these last weeks—and when Marco is being the trainer, he’s tough—but in his softer moments, I’m desperate for clues that maybe he’s feeling the same stirrings that I am. Like how I cannot wait to get to the gym and see his face, how there is a literal spring in my step in those last few feet before I pull the front door hand
le and the gym atmosphere rushes at me; how when he smiles or even frowns at his clients, I experience a squeeze in my chest—the good kind, not the I’m-going-into-cardiac-arrest kind, although sometimes it feels like a heart attack when I go too many days without seeing him. He’s told me the stories of the crazy things he’s done for friends and his brother and even the thirtieth-wedding-anniversary surprise he coordinated for his parents when he hired a skywriter to fly above their house: JAMES LOVES FIONA FOREVER.

  Looking around at all these people, at all this stuff, at this absolutely herculean effort, his words from that day in the woods echo in my head—Let me be your friend—but, dear man, aren’t we more? Have I misread this, because the signs are all there, Marcellus . . . I know for a fact that you don’t look at your other clients the way you look at me. You don’t spend the same unpaid time with them that you do with me—and if you do, how do you pay your mortgage?

  Are you ever going to ask me out, or are we going to dance around each other for the rest of our natural lives?

  Marco, hand still bandaged, though he reports he’s mostly healed, flattens the blueprints over a plywood-and-sawhorse table. He points out where we’re going to build the hurdles, rope-climbs against the building’s outer brick wall, the military-style crawl under chicken wire through the sand, the tire course, the 4x4-post carry, monkey bars, the sandbag up-and-over wall, the kettlebell relay, even hula hoops.

  Once the dump truck rolls out, Marco delegates tasks, and we set to work. When I see him pick up a shovel, I step in. “Excuse me, young man, but you’re not using that hand yet.”

  “Nurse Ratched, I can scoop some sand.”

  “I’m sorry, but as your resident high-maintenance pain in the ass, I’m going to have to insist that you let those of us who have not undergone thirty-odd stitches in the last month to handle this bit.”

  He leans on the shovel. “Does that mean I get to boss people around?”

  “Isn’t that what you do best?”

  He snickers and hands me his shovel. “I’m known for other unique talents, but this will do for now.”

  “One of these days, I’d like to see those unique talents,” I say, because why not? I’m going for it.

  Our eyes lock for a beat, and he lifts a brow. “I’ll have to take that under advisement.”

  Over the subsequent two days, we finish the course, hang up the huge vinyl signs Marco had printed, and distribute flyers throughout the local neighborhood businesses. Marco and I hit Costco for loads of fruit for smoothies, to be made with the borrowed blenders of at least five gym members; Alex the Vet brings a fancy barbecue for the multiple coolers packed with meatless and turkey hot dogs and buns donated by Minotaur’s Target managers; Limping Lady brings in many dozens of healthy cookies that she’s baked over the past week because “who doesn’t like cookies”; Trish with Muscles has cartons of protein bars and fresh fruit and energy snacks donated by local health-friendly grocery stores. Even Lady Macbeth and her crazy-hyper nine-year-old son get in on the action by bringing boxes of dollar-store pencils and participation ribbons for the kids running the course.

  It’s an unrivaled team effort that catches the attention of local news and social media streams. Saturday afternoon, the sun showing off what she’s got planned for us in the last few days before summer officially arrives, we have local TV personalities interviewing folks standing in the line that stretches up the block. People love a good cause, and what better cause than a children’s hospital that The Rock himself supports? It’s a perfect example of grassroots viral marketing, where people hear about an event and then come by because they want to donate a few bucks to run through our course while their friends take hilarious photos as they face-plant into the sand.

  It’s a total blast. The most fun I have had in months. Years, maybe. And not a single person brings up the blog.

  As the weekend progresses, I gladly collect the congratulatory full-body hugs that Miraculously Beautiful Marco offers every time I complete another set of fifteen runs of the course. On breaks, his arm lingers around my shoulders for longer intervals, even though I’m sweaty and stinky and whining about sore muscles. We both seem to find excuses to touch one another’s arms or place a hand on a lower back; I’ve checked his healing hand no fewer than five times “for dirt and pulled skin from overdoing it,” but truly for no other reason than to have an excuse to touch him. He doesn’t pull away until my inspection is complete.

  If he doesn’t make a move in the next week, I will. I’d have to be numb not to notice that the thumping in my chest has nothing to do with exertion, and everything to do with the way he smiles at me.

  Sunday night, when the last racer has finished and the last smoothie has been poured, the obstacles torn down and the sand scooped back into the hulking truck it came in, Hollywood Fitness has a bunch of new members; Team Dani has raised more than $5,000; Marco has rubbed out the terrible knot in my calf a half dozen times, laughing as I squeal in pain but not really (it’s all I can do to not tear his clothes off right there in front of everyone); and I’ve run the course—not even exaggerating—one hundred and one times as per the gauntlet thrown down by Marco.

  Who’s the candy-ass now, DJ? Not this girl.

  Best weekend ever.

  FIFTY-TWO

  Dear Danielle,

  I was a fan of your hilarious blog, but now it’s gone. Do you have any plans to put it back up? I appreciate all the stuff where you talked about your crazy family and your fitness goals. My family is super crazy too (and some of them not in a good way!).

  After years of struggling with a food addiction, I’ve recently lost almost a hundred pounds with the help of a trainer, a psychoanalyst, and modifications in my diet and exercise. I found your blog right at the time when I needed a good chuckle—one of my friends emailed me the link—and I was so happy to see that you are on a fitness journey of your own.

  I totally understand why you wrote all these letters to The Rock. He’s such an inspiration, isn’t he? From that troubled kid who had nothing to who he is today. I had problems with shoplifting and getting into trouble for stupid stuff when I was in high school, and I know now that it was because I was trying to deal with my dad bailing and my mom being a drunk who dated losers. I don’t blame my lame parents for the dumb crap I did, but I know that my actions were motivated by my anger toward them. I know stuff has been hard for you too, so I just wanted you to know that you’re not alone.

  I recently turned twenty-two, and I’m in college studying to be an occupational therapist so I can work with handicapped kids. I just wanted you to know that your blog inspired me to keep going with my diet and exercise routine. I’m sad that it’s not up anymore, but if you decide to publish it again, or maybe start a new blog, I’d love to see more funny, inspiring stories, especially about you winning that big competition coming up! You should let your readers know if there’s a place they can donate money to your fund-raising team.

  Good luck, Danielle! If you meet The Rock in person, tell him I said hello!

  Sincerely,

  Tamara J.

  Tucson, Arizona

  [Message from user TAMMYJ94]

  FIFTY-THREE

  From:Georgette H. Steele-Preston

  To:Danielle E. Steele

  Subject: Proud of you . . . but st*ll mad

  Hey, Dan*,

  *’ve been mean*ng to ema*l and thank you for help*ng Samuel w*th that awful back hedge—and then for the fru*t and w*ne basket last week? D*d you put that together yourself? So cute! You d*dn’t have to d*ng-dong-d*tch l*ke a th*rd grader, though, Dan*. *’m not go*ng to throw crabapples at you. (Remember when we used to do that to that k*d down the block who would d*ng-dong-d*tch because he loved Jack*e? Good t*mes . . .) My anger at your r*d*culous blog has been suff*c*ently soothed by the W*llamette Valley P*not * almost d*dn’t share w*th Sam—and the body chocolate—n*ce touch, smart-ass. JUST STOP WR*T*NG
ABOUT MY SEX L*FE ON YOUR BLOG, you b*g jerk. (* shared the body chocolate w*th Samuel. He says thank you very, very much. Ha ha ha, that’s what you get, pervert.)

  Anyway, * saw you on the news! That obstacle course—that’s for the b*g compet*t*on you’re do*ng w*th The Rock? W*ll you really get to meet h*m? * hope so. * know how *mportant he’s been *n your l*fe, sort of a stand-*n for Gerald Robert Steele.

  Sorry about the m*ss*ng vowel. * freak*ng need f*ve ch*ld-free m*nutes to get to the Apple Store. NO YOU CANNOT BABYS*T FOR ME.

  As a s*de note, *’ve res*gned from my PTA pres*dency because *’m so hum*l*ated about the photos of my sex toys, even though a few of my fr*ends have laughed because they’ve got the same stuff we do . . . What can * say? Parents of k*ndergartners are horny?

  And *’ve been talk*ng to Mommy so she lays off a l*ttle. We know you were hacked so we forg*ve you. Just so you know, * d*dn’t read past the last few weeks of entr*es. *’m even sorry * read that much.

  But *f you’re ever go*ng to babys*t my k*ds aga*n, you absolutely have to prom*se you won’t feed them synthet*c cough med*c*nes OR that sh*tty p*zza. SER*OULSY. Mary May pooped for a week, and *t was the nast*st poop ever. * should’ve saved *t for YOU to clean up.

  Jack*e and * talked and we’re go*ng to come root for you at The Rock’s compet*t*on. Mommy *s st*ll try*ng to f*gure out how to get to her UFO th*ng, but Jack*e and * want to come support you. Also—that hot Br*t*sh dude you were stand*ng w*th dur*ng the news *nterv*ew—THAT’S M*RACULOUSLY BEAUT*FUL MARCO, *SN’T *T??? TELL ME HE’S S*NGLE AND YOU ARE BON*NG THAT! Jack*e sa*d Jake st*tched h*s hand back together after he beat up some dude at a pub? *f you don’t tap that, there *s someth*ng terr*bly wrong w*th your bra*n and maybe your vag*na, Dan*elle.

  See *f you can get us some of those awesome Team Dan* T-sh*rts, okay?

  Love you, even though you’re a huge d*ck . . .