by Sarina Bowen
I set down the phone on the coffee table, stumble toward my bedroom, crawl under the sheets, and close my eyes.
The next time I regain consciousness, my sister Rosie is sitting on the bed, poking me in the side. “Mac, wake up. Everyone is worried about you. Lance says you’ve fallen into a pit of despair.”
“I have not,” I grumble into my pillow. “Men don’t fall into pits of despair. They get up and go to work and…” Oh shit. I sit up really fast. “What time is it?”
My sister blinks. “It’s Saturday o’clock.”
“Oh!” I fall back down onto the pillow.
“No, Mac. Get up.”
“No.”
“Yes.”
I’m sure we had more sophisticated arguments in grade school.
“Take a shower,” she orders.
“No.”
“I’ll make coffee.”
I waver. Because coffee sounds pretty good right now. My head is pounding.
“And there are doughnuts.”
Well that’s a game changer. I open one eye.
“Come on. You know I’m not going to give up on you. I never do.”
Aw. I sit up. “See? You can catch more flies with honey.”
“Coffee, coming up!” She bounces from the room, and I consider going back to sleep. But it will never work. So I drag my sorry carcass into the shower instead. The hot water pounds on my aching head. Why did I drink? What a lousy idea that was.
Eventually I’m showered and dressed. I scarf down a donut at the kitchen sink and gulp coffee out of a giant mug that Rosie has handed me.
Meanwhile, she’s buzzing around my apartment, fluffing the pillows. Meg loves those pillows.
Whoops. I’ve been awake about twelve whole minutes before my mind goes straight to Meg. What would Cosmo say?
Rosie even goes into my room and makes the bed. “Now Mac, come here!” she calls.
With my coffee for support, I enter the bedroom where my sister is sitting cross-legged on the freshly made bed.
“Sit. We need to talk.”
I was afraid of that. But I sit down anyway.
“Now tell me how you’re going to fix things with Meg?”
This again. “I can’t fix them without becoming a different person.”
“So do that.” She shrugs.
“Rosie!”
“Look, Mac. We’re all sympathetic. You don’t like to take chances with your heart.”
“I can’t,” I explain. “It’s just not how I’m built.”
“Hmm,” Rosie says, looking thoughtful. “Humor me for a moment, would you? There’s something I want to show you. Try this: stretch both arms over your head. And take a deep breath.”
I hesitate. “Is this, like, a yoga technique?”
“Something like that.”
I consider my options. On the one hand, my sister brought me coffee and donuts. And she obviously cares. So I should humor her. On the other hand, this is a bunch of bullshit and I’d like to get on with my day.
My day full of moping.
“Mac. Come on. Just lift up your arms, you stubborn macho bonehead.”
With a sigh, I set down my coffee mug and slowly raise my arms overhead.
“Good job,” she says. “Stretch! Take a deep breath and hold it. Arch your back a little.”
Huh. Yoga is getting weirder all the time.
Rosie lifts herself onto her knees and takes my wrists in one of her hands. She eases them closer to the metal bed frame. “You’re doing great. Hold it right there.”
Hold it right there. That’s something a cop would say right before he...
Something cool slips around my wrist. Click. The sound of a handcuff closing makes me jerk that wrist. “What the—”
Click.
She’s got the other one, too! “Rosie! What the everloving fuck?” I yank on my wrists, but they’re cuffed together with my iron bedrail in between. “Are you shitting me right now!”
My sister smiles. “Calm down, Mac.”
“I WILL NOT CALM DOWN.” I can’t lower my arms. She’s cuffed me to my own bed with... “Are these my own handcuffs? This isn’t funny at all.”
“It’s not supposed to be funny. It’s supposed to make you uncomfortable.”
“I AM VERY UNCOMFORTABLE, CAPTAIN OBVIOUS!”
“There is no need to shout.” She crosses her arms. “Let’s just take a few breaths and observe ourselves with curiosity, but not with judgment.”
“Oh, I’m full of judgment!”
“For me, sure.” Rosie shrugs. “But let’s focus on you. Describe your discomfort. Do you feel vulnerable?”
“Yes, dammit. Congratulations. Now get these off me. Where did you find these, anyway?”
“In your sock drawer.”
“You evil…” I bite my tongue, because I cannot insult the person who I need to set me free. “Where’s the key?” Oh, God. If she lost it, the boys at the station will never let me live this down. Lance will show up here and take fifty photos before he lets me go.
“Mac, it’s right there on top of the dresser. Look.”
My frantic eyes go to that spot. Sure enough, I can just see the key at the edge of the dresser. So close but so far away. I let out a bellow of helpless rage.
“Good!” says Rosie, clapping her hands together. “This is very healthy. How uncomfortable are you right now on a scale of one to ten?”
“Dangerously uncomfortable,” I spit. “Like a hundred and forty-two. Whatever you’re trying to prove, it worked. Now uncuff me or—” I try to think of a suitable threat. My sister knows that I’d never actually hurt her. So I have to choose carefully. “Uncuff me right now, or there will be no triple decker devil’s food cake on your birthday.”
“Ohhhh! You are really mad.” She begins to look slightly concerned.
“You think? And I’m not joking. If you don’t let me out of here, you’re going to be stuck with mom’s cake. And it’ll probably have crocheted frosting.”
We both shudder. “Huh, well.” Rosie takes a deep breath. “That’s just a chance I’ll have to take. Because I need you to listen to me for a minute.”
“Like I have a choice.”
“I cuffed you to the bed because this is how people feel when they’re in love. Trapped, exposed. Isn’t that how you feel right now?”
“To say the least. But you’re not really selling it to me, are you? Who would do this willingly?”
“Meg would.” She sits back on her heels. “This is what Meg was willing to feel for you. She put herself out there, even when it felt very uncomfortable. She showed you her heart, even when you’d told her that you don’t date. Even when you showed her your ugly past, she wasn’t afraid. She chained herself to a very uncomfortable place. She stood in front of the Macklin Maguire human bulldozer without anything to protect her heart. And she did it all for you.”
“Fuck.” I take a deep breath. And then another one. The coffee and sugar are starting to kick in. And I think about what Rosie is trying to tell me. Meg did all those things. It’s true. I don’t know if I’m worth the trouble.
Except Meg thinks I am.
“I dunno,” I tell my sister. “I hear you. But I don’t know if I’m there yet.”
“You will be,” she says kindly. “I have faith. I’d give it...” She pauses. Then she counts on her fingers.
“Ten years?” I joke.
“Nah. I give it two hours.” She slides off the bed. Then she picks up her purse and puts it on her shoulder.
“Where are you going?” I ask, my voice getting high and weird. Because now my sister is striding toward the bedroom door.
“Grocery shopping!” she calls.
“But… Rosie! You forgot something, here!” I’m still cuffed to the bed. “I learned your lesson! Get back here!”
She turns around. “Do you love Meg?”
“I…” The word is right on the tip of my tongue. But it doesn’t matter if I love Meg or not. She’ll still get sick o
f me. I’m prickly. I have a dangerous job. I’m set in my ways.
Rosie sighs. Then she checks her watch. “Three hours, maybe. You’re a tough case.”
“Hey!” I yell as she disappears from the bedroom. “Get back here! No cake for you! Not on your birthday! Not at Christm—”
Slam. My sister has left me here. I’m gonna kill her.
29 I’d Know That Thud Anywhere
Meg
“Okay, troops!” I announce from the middle of Aubrey’s living room. “We’re settled on “Uptown Funk,” two dozen dancers, and October twelfth. First rehearsal is October first!” That’s the day after my last episode wraps. I’m going to have to hustle back here to make this work. But it’s totally worth it.
“Sweet!” Aubrey says, and her assistant flips her notebook closed. “I’ll let you both get back to your Saturday.”
“Thanks, baby! Can’t wait for this.”
I’m not exaggerating either. I really can’t wait for it. When Aubrey called me with another flash mob job, I didn’t even think twice about jumping into my car and racing back to Michigan for the meeting.
I loved our farmers’ market wedding proposal. I think I have a real future in creating small theatrical events that change people’s lives. And nobody has opened a business like this in West Michigan yet. It’s waiting for me! I feel all sunshiney inside when I think about it.
My stint in Chicago, on the other hand, has been a real eye-opener. It’s a great experience, and I’m still excited to see my episodes air. But it’s not fun. The producer and the director are fighting. One of the lead writers quit in front of me yesterday. They’re not a happy bunch.
Oh, and now I know exactly what Danny-From-Downtown-Blues would do in various situations. Good Ol’ Danny Boy would drink Scotch between takes and then fall asleep behind the sets. Also, Danny would kiss like a real loser. Ugh. My scenes with him require every bit of my acting talent.
I have three more episodes to shoot before my character is killed off. And then it’s back to auditioning again. Back on the treadmill.
Or is it? I haven’t decided if I want to keep auditioning. Right now I could literally go either way. And that alone says something significant. When you lose passion for something, isn’t it time to try something new?
Like Meg’s Mobs. My fledgling business already has a name. Meg’s Mobs is totally going to happen. Meg’s Mobs gets me all a flutter. I’ll start my own business the minute I’m back from Chicago. Hell, it’s pretty much already started. And I’ll make all the casting decisions. I can’t wait to be in charge, for once.
There are so many ways to be successful. And I’m done waiting for my flipping fairy godmother to show up and make me queen of Hollywood.
I kiss Aubrey goodbye and then head for my car. Just as I’m about to get in, she calls out her front door to me. “You’re going home now, right? To your apartment?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I want to grab some things.”
There’s an awkward pause and I think I see her tapping on her phone.
“Why?” I call.
“Oh, nothing. Just asking. In case I need to stop by later. But I probably won’t. In fact, if I need to stop by later, I’ll make sure I call first.” She gives me a final wave and then closes her door.
That’s weird.
But that’s Aubrey.
I start up my car, and immediately my thoughts go back to Meg’s Mobs. Can I start a business while also hustling for more on-screen work? What kind of life do I want? Who do I want to be, exactly?
These are my thoughts as I drive to my apartment for the first time in three weeks. When I pull into the lot, Mac’s car is there. That’s too bad, honestly. I hadn’t wanted to think about him this weekend. It’s almost tempting to turn around and go right back to Chicago.
I sit in my parking space for a moment, the engine idling.
But then I grab the key and twist it. Because fuck him. This is my home. And if he’s so frightened of my love that he needs to put some distance between us, that’s on him.
In fact, I’m going to let him know I’m here and I am totally fine without him.
A few minutes later I’m marching down our shared hallway and unlocking my door with a flourish. Since it’s stuffy in my apartment, the first order of business is opening all the windows and welcoming in the fresh air.
The song “Uptown Funk” is stuck in my head, because we played it a few times at Aubrey’s house just to get the feel of the beat. This new flash mob will kick off a surprise party. The birthday boy is supposed to think he’s been sent to the mall for just an errand or two. But his boyfriend has orchestrated a surprise party at one of the restaurants. And the flash mob is just the beginning.
“Uptown funk gonna sing it to you!” Whoops. Those aren’t the words, but I’m probably close. “Uptown funk gonna ring it for you. Bling it at you! Something-something and someTHING!”
Fine—lyrics aren’t my strong suit. But this is my home and I can butcher tunes if I want to.
I find when I’m working out a new flash mob scene, it helps to butcher with aplomb. And volume. So I am singing to my heart’s content when suddenly I hear a thud against the wall.
I immediately go silent. The only thing beating is my heart. I’d know that thud anywhere. It’s Mac. My copper.
But he’s not mine, is he?
My blood stops circulating. Because that thud might mean he’s already someone else’s.
I feel nauseous at the thought.
Welp. More singing then. Some sounds need to be drowned out. “Uptown junk gonna sling it at you!”
And now there’s another sound! But it’s not a headboard banging. Instead, Mac answers with four little knocks in quick succession. And those four knocks... That’s our code. That means he wants me to come over!
For a hot second I’m elated. But then I put the brakes on. Of course I do. I can’t run over there and throw myself at his feet. Not. Happening. If he wants to see me, he needs to come over here and apologize. Preferably on his knees.
An image of Mac crawling on his knees toward me is almost enough for me to lose my balance. So I start singing again.
But then I hear his voice. “Meg?” It’s so soft, I can barely make it out. I tiptoe over to the wall and press my ear against it.
“Meg,” he calls again, louder this time.
I don’t say anything. Because he doesn’t deserve a response.
“I need…”
My heart stops for a second. What do you need, Mac? Just say it!
“I need you!” he calls. My traitorous heart leaps. Because that’s all I ever wanted to hear him say.
Except I don’t trust it. He could have called me to say so. I’ve been in Chicago, for craps sake. Not Ouagadougou.
“You need me,” I say to the wall. “Because you chose this moment to realize it? Or because you’re trapped under something heavy.”
He chuckles, low and sultry, and the hair stands up on my arms. God, that laugh. I miss it so much. “It’s a little of both,” he says. “Come see.”
“Maybe later.” Or never. I have so many feelings for Mac. But I’m not sure he’s capable of returning them. Some wounded people never get over their wounds. And I won’t spend my life waiting to find out if he’s one of them.
“Now, Meg,” he says. “I need you now.”
There’s a definitive tone to his voice that I can’t ignore. My feet point toward the hallway before I can even stop myself.
“You’ll have to climb the fence,” he says.
That stops me. “What? Why?”
There’s that chuckle again. “You’ll see.”
“No I won’t,” I snap. “You can’t play games with me, okay? I’ve had enough.”
“I know you have.” Because we have such thin walls, I can even hear his sigh. “The irony is pretty rich, but I need you to break in just one last time. I’ll never ask you to again. My front door is probably locked, and I can’t open it myself.�
�
I feel a tingle at the base of my skull. “Why not?”
“You’ll see in a minute. And maybe you’re not ready to believe anything I’m saying. But ten bucks says you’ll think the sight is worth a couple minutes of your time.”
The sight of…?
Okay, fuck it. I’m intrigued. And something tells me that there’s a setup at work.
“Hang on a sec!” I call. I think back to how awkward Aubrey was and how she wanted to make sure I was coming home.
So I text Aubrey…
ME: WTF is happening at Mac’s apartment?
…
AUBREY: Oh, good! You’re home!
ME: Yeah but???
AUBREY: Rosie told me to tell you happy birthday. She left something for you in Mac’s apartment.
ME: Is it by any chance...Mac?
AUBREY: My lips are zipped. But maybe you should go over there really quick in case your birthday gift has to pee. Okay?
My friends are a strange crew. But I guess I’ll worry about that later. Mac can’t open his own door? I’m going to have to find out why. But on my own terms.
I clear my throat. “Mac?”
“Yes, Trouble?”
“I’m in the middle of alphabetizing my sock drawer. I’ll swing by in a few.”
He snorts. “I’m not going anywhere. Apparently.”
I tiptoe to my closet. Mac hasn’t seen me in three weeks. This is one of those moments that calls for something outrageous. I start plucking hangers off the bar, asking myself: what would a sexy cat burglar wear? If I’m already breaking and entering, I might as well do it in leather...
...TWENTY MINUTES LATER
“Meg,” he demands as I’m checking out my bustier in the mirror. “If your sock drawer is in order, how about you come over.”
“Soon!” I grin at my reflection. That’s showing him.
“Just, please, come over. Were you waiting to hear the magic word?”
“Maybe,” I admit. “But the magic words are: I am a stupid fucking asshole.”
“Well then I am a stupid fucking asshole.”
I blink. Because that was a little too easy. “You’re not dying, right? You’re not bleeding out, or anything?”
