by Sarina Bowen
Which thing does he want more?
I’m sure not here to think about Brett, though. I find the lifeguard station, and I put my towel down just a couple of yards away. And I wait for Ralph. There are a couple of surfers in the water already. From this distance it’s not easy to tell, but I don’t think he’s one of them.
So I turn around and watch the pathway where people emerge from the parking lot. I don’t see a guy carrying a surfboard. Or two surfboards.
Maybe I should have met him in the parking lot, instead?
I stay on my towel and wait. Three o’clock comes and goes. I try not to worry, because if there was a rush of drink orders, he would have to help out.
It’s three thirty suddenly. And then four.
Still, I don’t leave. Ralph isn’t the kind of guy to ask me out all summer and then bail. There must be a problem.
The sun sinks lower and lower in the sky, and my heart sinks, too.
He’s not coming. He forgot all about me, I think. Who does that?
You never gave him your phone number, my conscience reminds me. He can’t call and explain.
But really—how hard could it be to ask a bus boy to run down and tell me he’s not coming? I’m, like, two blocks from the bar right now.
I know I shouldn’t take it hard, but I do anyway. As I sit here on the towel, my insecurities multiply like bunny rabbits. I’m a fool. I came here to focus on music, not men. I’m too distracted. I’m too flighty. I’m too selfish. Maybe that’s why nothing ever pans out for me.
Maybe that’s why Ralph forgot to show.
My phone rings, and I scramble to pull it out of my bag. But it’s Brett calling. “Where are you?” he asks as soon as I pick up. “I’m standing in this bar like an asshole, and you’re not here.”
So prickly, this one. We’re more alike than I care to admit. “Is Ralph there?”
“Why? It’s a woman tending bar today, Delilah. I asked if you’d been in here and she looked at me like I’m crazy for asking. Where are you?”
“On the beach,” I admit.
“Want to go have drinks with a producer I met?”
“I…” My mind is spinning. Ralph isn’t even at work? “I have a headache. I’m in a lousy mood.” I’m not in the mood to try to impress a producer. And drinks would mean putting my phobia on display.
“Let me come and find you,” Brett says, his voice becoming gentle. “Screw the drinks.”
“Screw ’em,” I echo.
“We’ll walk back to my place and just chill,” Brett suggests.
I hesitate. But what difference does it make now? The man I thought was a good one is the guy who stood me up. “Okay,” I say. “Let’s go to your place.”
“Excellent,” he says softly. “I’ll be right there.”
As I get up from my towel and shake out the sand, I take one more look down the beach in both directions.
There’s no guy with kind eyes and a surfboard.
When I leave town three days later with Brett at my side, I’ll wonder if I imagined him.
July
Silas
“Are you nervous?” Georgia asks, giving me the once-over. “You look great.”
“Thanks, I think?” I look down at the Bruisers T-shirt I’m wearing with a pair of khaki shorts. What else am I supposed to wear to a baseball game? “You’re making me self-conscious now.” It’s been two weeks since Delilah Spark made Twitter swoon by accepting a date with me.
Coincidentally, I’ve been on a two-week high. But now it’s showtime.
“Sorry,” she says with a giggle. “The girls and I always tell each other how nice we look before a big night out. It’s a habit. You’re lucky Rebecca didn’t show up to do your makeup.”
“Yikes. I knew there was a reason I don’t really date.”
She smiles like I’m adorable. “I hope you have a great time. Are you going to get all tongue-tied in the presence of your idol?”
“Let’s hope not.” Although it’s totally possible. I can still see the scar on my thumb from where I sliced myself the first time I ever saw her. Keeping cool in front of Delilah has never been easy for me.
“Take this. There’s a Bruisers jersey in here for her.” Georgia hands me a shopping bag. “And there’s a teddy bear in here, too. After tonight she won’t have any trouble remembering which team to root for.”
Or root against, if this goes badly. I’m still a little stunned that she hasn’t canceled. That could mean one of two things—either she still hasn’t realized that I’m Ralph from Roadie Joe’s. Or she figured it out and still wants to see me.
I hope it’s the second one. But I’m worried, even if I’m not willing to explain the whole thing to my friends. “Thank you, Georgia.” I say, giving her a quick hug. “Thanks for setting up the baseball game.” That’s the plan for tonight—a seven o’clock Brooklyn Cyclones game, with box seats.
Georgia arranged for us to have a nice but casual meal there. And it’s semi-private—the cameras will catch us if they want to, but nobody will be able to harass Delilah for autographs.
“It’s my pleasure. Oh! And I got you these.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small package of… I’m afraid to look.
I take it from her. “Brooklyn Breath Mints? You’re so subtle.”
She cackles. “At least I didn’t buy you a box of condoms. Knock her dead, cowboy. I expect a full report in the morning.” Her smile is wide and teasing. “But no pressure.”
“Jesus.”
She heads for my apartment door, laughing. “Your car will be here in ten minutes. Don’t forget to call me tomorrow. In the morning. No hour too early.”
Finally, she leaves. My apartment grows quiet again, and I exhale. I’ll admit to being a little nervous. Delilah will probably be mad at me for surprising her like this. I’d debated coming clean, but I decided against it, because I’d rather apologize in person.
And maybe she already knows. If you Google my name, you can find team photos where I’m not wearing all my gear.
My phone rings in my pocket, and I pull it out, expecting the caller to be the car company. I’d arranged to pick up Delilah in Manhattan and then drive all the way back to the Brooklyn ball park. It won’t be a short trip, but it gives us a chance to talk alone.
It’s not a number I recognize, though. “Hello?”
“Hi, Silas? This is Becky, the publicist for Delilah Spark.”
“I remember. Hi, Becky.”
“Look, there’s been a change of plans.”
My gut shifts uneasily. “What kind of change?”
“Dee’s record label needs her at a meeting at seven tonight. So she can’t make the baseball game.”
“A meeting. At seven o’clock,” I echo stupidly. I can’t believe she’s blowing me off at the last minute. “What about tomorrow?”
There’s a pause, because I don’t think Becky was expecting me to suggest an alternative time. She didn’t think I’d make her turn me down twice. “I’m so sorry—we leave on a midmorning flight. I’m afraid it just won’t work.”
Again, I’m speechless. But I can’t come this close to seeing Delilah again and then have the moment snatched away.
“Silas, look,” she says. “You seem like a really nice guy. I just want you to know that this it isn’t just a story Dee cooked up so she could stay in and watch Netflix. The meeting with her label is real. She’s not happy about it.”
A mental image of Delilah arrives in my mind. She’s wearing her Kind of a Big Deal T-shirt and scowling at Brett Ferris. Back then, she was a nobody and getting jerked around by the Brett Ferrises of the world seemed normal. But now I have to wonder why such a successful woman is still taking orders.
That gives me a bad feeling. “Listen, Becky. Are you needed at that same meeting?”
“Me? No. Why?”
“Hear me out. You name a spot—any coffee shop in Manhattan. Let me meet up with you, so I can give you a note for Delilah.”
“A
note?” I can hear the hesitation in her voice.
“Yeah. This date isn’t a publicity stunt for me. I need to tell her something important.”
There’s a wary silence on the other end of the line. Becky is trying to figure out if I’m some kind of nutter.
“I won’t even seal the letter. You can read it first and decide for yourself. But I promise you’ll understand. What I have to say is important.”
“This had better be good, Mr. Kelly.”
“Oh, it is. I promise.”
She sighs again, like she can’t believe she’s falling for my tricks. And I can’t believe it, either. “There’s a Starbucks on the corner of Eighth Avenue and Forty-third Street. Be there at seven.”
“Leaving now!” I say. “I’m wearing a purple Bruisers shirt. You can’t miss me.”
“See you there,” she says. There’s a click. And then I’m running into my bedroom looking for a sheet of paper to write on.
I can’t let Delilah go back to California without explaining that I never meant to stand her up. It won’t change anything, but at least I’ll feel better about it.
Delilah
I’m stalling.
It’s a hot summer day in New York. I’m supposed to be on my way to a ball game with a cute hockey player. But instead I’m staring at the bottled sodas on offer at Starbucks, trying to decide which one will shore me up enough to face Brett Ferris at this meeting.
“Omigod,” Becky says. “Choose something while I’m still young.”
I wave Becky toward the counter to order her own drink. I don’t follow, because I’m busy eavesdropping on the women behind me. They’re at a table, each of them with babies in strollers. I don’t like to make assumptions based only on skin tone, but after listening to their conversation for three minutes, I’ve already established that they’re nannies of the children in their care.
“It all comes down to four weeks of day camp,” one of them is saying to her friend. “If I could pay for August, I could cobble the rest of the summer together with relatives’ help.”
“How much is Mia’s camp?” asks the other one.
“Three hundred dollars a week. So that’s twelve hundred bucks. It’s more than a third of my income. But if I don’t pay for the camp, then I’m going to have to quit this job or leave her home alone all day.” She groans. “Nine is too young to stay home in the Bronx, even if I pay for a second phone instead of camp, and then call her every hour.”
I’m still staring at the bottled juices, but my mind is somewhere else now. The Bronx? I’m not familiar enough with New York to guess where this nine-year-old lives. She’s sitting on a window seat, staring outside while other children pass by on the street. She’s lonely, because her mother is holding someone else’s baby for money.
This is how all my songs start out—with a picture in my mind.
“I don’t know what to do,” the woman says.
“Would you ever ask your boss if you could have a nine-year-old helper for a couple of weeks?” her friend asks.
“A month, though.” I hear her sigh. “That would be a last resort, I guess. But the family won’t like it. It pierces the bubble, you know? I always try to make them think I put their baby first.”
“As if,” the friend says.
“Dee,” Becky says under her breath. Becky never says “Delilah” in public, because sometimes the big sunglasses and the hat I’m wearing aren’t enough to keep curious eyes off me.
I pick up a juice bottle and hand it to her, and with a sigh of relief, she goes up to the register to pay for both of us.
By the time she’s back, I’ve already written the check. It’s for $1200—enough for four weeks of day camp. I leave the “To” line blank.
“Here,” Becky says, handing me my drink. “What are you… Oh, Dee. Really? Which one is it for?”
I tip my head toward the young woman with the blue stroller. “Summer camp for her own child. Trust me.”
“You are such an easy target,” she whispers.
“No I’m not,” I argue. My checks say D Spark and the address is a post office box in Culver City. When I make these little donations, nobody even knows.
“Now go, okay?” Becky checks the time on her phone. “You’re going to be late if you don’t leave now.”
“So?” I argue. “Why are you so twitchy today?” Even as I ask, I see Becky checking the door.
“I’m not. But go anyway. I can’t give that woman this check until you get out of here.”
“Fine.” I’m not trying to create some kind of PR moment. When I do my little random acts of kindness, it’s supposed to be anonymous. “I’m going. But I don’t want to.”
Becky gives my bodyguard—Mr. Muscles—a wave across the room. “I just want to say one more thing before you go into that meeting. Every woman has a man she regrets.”
“Tell me about it,” I mumble.
“I’m trying. Because you tend to beat yourself up over Brett Ferris. But not today, okay? Today he’s just an oops. We all have them.”
“You are full of wisdom.” I uncap my juice and take a sip.
“Now go. Unless you need me to come along as your emotional support animal.”
This makes me smile. “I’m going. What are you doing, anyway?” She’s glancing around the room again, as if she lost something.
“Maybe I’ll sit here a little while and return some emails.”
“Whatever floats your boat. Later!”
“Stay strong!” she says, waving me off.
After I step outside, I stop and peek through the plate-glass window.
“Miss?” Mr. Muscles says in his deep, deep voice. “The car is coming around the corner.”
“Just a sec,” I say, resisting his big hand on my elbow. Becky is bending down, placing the check on the table.
First, the young woman leans down to inspect it. Then she sits up again quickly, astonishment on her face. She claps a hand over her mouth and stares at Becky.
And that’s all I need to see. It’s done. The rest is just an awkward thank you and Becky’s insistence that she fill in the name on the check and go right to the bank to deposit the money.
I let Mr. Muscles steer me into the back of the waiting car. He climbs into the front, and the driver accelerates towards a meeting that I almost certainly won’t enjoy.
Delilah
Brett and I are seated across a conference room table from one another. And it’s awkward. Actually, he looks perfectly comfortable. But this is his turf. One year into our three-year relationship, he merged his fledgling record label with part of a bigger company—MetroPlex. He’s a partner here.
I’m what they call talent in this industry.
If only I had a talent for choosing men. While Brett arranges a folder on the table in front of him, I keep sneaking looks at him. He’s familiar in so many ways. He has a tan line in front of his ear, where a recent haircut has exposed a pale spot. And I was shopping with him on the day he bought that shirt on Rodeo Drive.
But after a mere couple months’ absence, he also seems strange to me now. I can’t imagine kissing him, although I used to do that pretty often. We didn’t have a cuddly sex life, though. We fought often and had lots of make-up sex.
That didn’t bother me. I’ve always been a prickly girl, so holding hands at the dinner table wasn’t something I’d expected.
And I’d needed someone steady in my life. I was willing to put up with a lot just to belong to someone.
But he wasn’t worth the tears. He didn’t love me. I think I knew it from the start. I was a trophy for him, a success of his own making. Brett loves success more than he loves people.
He cheated. A lot. And I turned a blind eye because I wanted to believe that we were a team.
There’s no Brett in team.
Should have gotten out before he torpedoed my self-esteem…
It rhymes, but I don’t hear a single.
“You look good, Delilah,” Bret
t says, leaning back in his chair.
“Thank you,” I say woodenly. But inside I’m simmering with irritation. I glance toward the open conference room door. “Who are we waiting on?”
“Nobody, unfortunately,” he says with a little shake of his head. “It turns out that Parker can’t make it tonight after all. Last-minute emergency at home.”
“He can’t make it?” I repeat, as my internal simmer becomes a boil. “After we rescheduled for this weird hour for him?”
“I know, right?” Brett gives a well-acted shrug. “Vice presidents can do as they please.”
Don’t react, I remind myself. But this was a setup from start to finish. Originally, the meeting had been scheduled for the perfectly normal hour of three p.m. But at the last minute, Brett had moved it to seven o’clock, ruining my Friday-evening plans.
Becky’s reaction had confirmed what I already suspected. “What a shit!” she’d fumed, stomping around my hotel suite. “He did this to ruin your Twitter date. Brett doesn’t want to see any photos of you with another man!”
This struck me as a little nutty, even for a manipulative bastard like Brett. Up until tonight, I was never sure how closely he’d been following the finer points of my publicity schedule.
Brett doesn’t love me. I know that in my gut. But he really hates to lose at anything.
Honestly, the date doesn’t really matter. But the incident gives me a very bad feeling. If Brett would wreck an unimportant Twitter date, what else will he do to get back at me?
So here I sit, trying not to fidget in an ergonomic leather chair, wondering how I’ll ever be free of him.
Across from me, Brett looks as smug as ever. “So let’s just get started. Have you given any thought to my three-album suggestion? If that’s the arrangement we decide on, the third one could be a gimme—a concert album, or a holiday thing. Maybe even a ‘best of’ record. I’d be willing to stipulate that in the contract.”
I take another slow breath and will myself not to climb over the shiny table and choke him. “A three-album contract isn’t really in my travel plans,” I say with practiced coolness.
