Coming Together Page 17

  Met your ex. She’s a little abrupt. Does she know about us?

  The second I type that, my whole body freezes a little. I’m getting Darren flashbacks hardcore now, remembering how he kept telling me he and his ex were over. Totally over. Not at all sleeping together over. Then, out of the blue, he did the naked tango and popped out another kid, and I just…I don’t know if I can do this again.

  Babies

  That’s the next thing I type, without thinking. I try deleting the whole damn thing, but then, to my horror, my stupid thumb hits the stupid send button. With a whoosh sound, the text is sent. And it looks something like this:

  Met your babies. about us?

  Fuuuuuck. Half a second later, I get a text back.

  …are you trying to tell me something?

  Not pregnant or anything, I type while imagining lying down in the street and letting a Prius run over me. Met your ex. She picked up Amelia. She’s a handful.

  Okay, now I feel like I want to roll off the canyon and save us all the trouble of dealing with me. When I get another text, I’m half afraid to even look at it. Maybe I can accidentally destroy my phone with my comically large mallet. Maybe.

  She is. A minute passes, then, That’s a conversation for in person, not texting. We can talk tomorrow when I pick you up.

  The gala. Right. Nothing like rocking my best off the rack ensemble while guzzling champagne cocktails and hearing about my casual fling’s hippie ex. It’s like Pretty Woman, except in no way is it like Pretty Woman.

  I text back that it’s fine and leave to walk to my car, my gut churning hard. I have to keep telling myself that Will isn’t Darren. He’s not going to run back to Suzonne. They’re divorced, after all. Signed, sealed, delivered, and all that jazz.

  I just wish I could feel more confident about this.

  15

  Chelle

  “How do I look?” I turn in front of my laptop, swirling in my chic, new, totally-not-from–Ross-why-would-you-even-say-that-haha gown. Emery’s watching me from her classroom, Skyping in to help me get over my nerves. She’ll be going to the gala as well, but since she’s not getting picked up by the hot dad she’s banging, she’ll just go there from the school.

  Emery makes much better life choices than I do.

  “Lookin’ good. You’ve got the right chest for the beaded top thing,” she says, waving a hand across her own gloriously ample boobs to illustrate. I’m not overly blessed in the chest department, it’s true, but I’m accentuating a little with the crystal beads. I’m wearing a pretty, sky blue dress that goes to my knees, with delicate designs on top and spaghetti straps. I’m feeling the Middle Earth elf princess thing tonight. It almost makes me want to wear my prosthetic elf ears, which I own for reasons, but I get the feeling that’s a little too out there even for the Bay of Dreams crowd.

  “When’s he picking you up?” Emery munches on some carrots and hummus.

  “Any minute now. I think we’re going to talk about the ex.”

  “Jesus, how’d that meeting go?” Emery rolls her eyes. Just then, my phone buzzes—Will. Downstairs. My stomach starts rippling, doing its damnedest to convince me that staying home is the best idea. Home with Archie and Netflix and my crippling despair that increases with every passing year.

  But I mean, you know. Netflix.

  Screw it. I grab my clutch purse, sign off with Emery, and head downstairs. I say hello to the two old men who are always sitting in the mail room arguing with each other about who had the best bowel movement in the 1970s, and walk out to the street. Will’s got his car purring up by the sidewalk. In this part of town, it’s like a glorious chariot with leather seats, and I slide in gratefully.

  I had several intelligent things I was going to say, but they’re washed away when I get a look at Will. It’s a miracle I don’t start drooling all over myself, because he has made an extra effort tonight. He always looks good—I think I’ve waxed poetic on that pretty often. But he’s dressed in a suit that probably costs half a year of my salary, and his cologne makes me think he washed in a mountain stream and then rolled in a pile of cash and crushed herbs. His dark hair is balanced perfectly between tousled and orderly, and he’s utterly clean shaven. Much as I love the scratch of stubble against my cheek, the shave makes you realize this is a jaw that could cut glass.

  “You. Herbs,” I say out loud, my brain grasping at whatever I was just thinking and presenting it in the dumbest way possible.

  “Normally women ask for flowers, but we’ll see what we can do.” He leans over and kisses me, and my whole body lights up. Not literally, because then he’d be radioactive, but you get what I mean. As we pull away from the curb and merge into traffic, he murmurs, “You look gorgeous.”

  Flattery will get you everywhere, sir. Flattery will get you wild, rampaging sex up against a brick wall. Not to give you any ideas, of course.

  “So.” That’s a good conversation starter, Chelle.

  “So. I think we should talk before we get to the party,” he says quietly. Yep, good idea. I grip my purse so hard that some of the sequins cut into my palm, but I’m cool. Very cool.

  “I didn’t mean to bombard you yesterday. Quirkily, of course.”

  “I think I need to explain about my ex,” he says as we take the ramp onto the freeway. I watch the car’s taillights ahead of me, girding my loins for whatever I’m about to hear. “Things are complicated right now.”

  Holy shit, my worst fears are being realized. They’re going to have a baby. Two babies. And adopt three basset hounds. Would falling out of the car at this speed kill me? Should I try?

  “But,” he says.

  But. But is a magic word.

  “It’s really over between us, Chelle. I can’t stress that enough.” Will clears his throat, checking the rearview mirror. I get the feeling this isn’t the most comfortable conversation for him, and can you really blame the guy? “We’ve been apart for over a year now, and the marriage was over long before that. When Amelia was five, I was spending more nights on my office couch than I was in bed. The only reason we stuck it out as long as we did was for her. But I realized it’d be even harder for her to grow up in a house where her parents couldn’t stand each other. So we split.” He glances over at me, a look both designed to smolder and check. He wants to see how I’m reacting. “I got the feeling you were nervous about Suzonne.”

  Oh, nervous about the gorgeous blonde in the cashmere pants? Surely you jest.

  “I had a bad experience,” I say simply. Fidgeting with my bracelet, I mumble, “I got duped by a guy who wasn’t over his ex. Or at least, he wouldn’t leave her alone.”

  Will squares his jaw. “I’m not that guy. This, between us?” Again, he gives the careful side eye. “I like this. So I wanted you to be aware.”

  My body is hyperaware right now—that is the absolute truth. My legs and arms unclench, because every word he’s saying is exactly what I need to hear. So long as Suzonne’s truly out of the picture, I can take whatever comes. Even if it doesn’t work out, I just can’t stand being lied to again. I think I’d snap. And I’d snap in the way any child of clowns would, by laughing maniacally and attacking the offender with a bottle of seltzer water.

  You don’t want to see me mad, folks.

  “What are you thinking about right now?” he asks, his voice deep and rich with curiosity.

  “Seltzer,” I answer truthfully. We drive in silence for a few moments longer.

  “You’re strange.” He thinks a moment. “That’s sexy.”

  If I had a nickel for every time I’ve heard that, I’d have a dime. But it’s appreciated all the same, and I slide my hand over his. He winks at me, and I feel heat pool through me, spread to my limbs. I’m relaxed. I’m secure.

  It’s party time.

  I did not realize how many parents and benefactors of Bay of Dreams were either celebrities or banging celebrities. Had I known that three A-listers, five B-listers, a handful of producers, and Meatloa
f would be here, I would’ve prepared myself accordingly. By that, I mean I would have brought my autograph book and squealed with glee alone in my room later tonight. As it stands, I don’t feel comfortable asking people to autograph either my iPhone or my back, so I stand in the corner and sigh over the missed opportunity.

  Though Meatloaf does autograph my cocktail napkin after I sing “I Would Do Anything For Love” softly, creepily, under my breath while he passes. I win at life.

  My kids do a great job of singing for the audience of parents, who applaud and coo adoringly. However, then Jay Z gets up onstage—he’s an uncle to someone here, apparently—and does an impromptu performance, and I have to admit that my adorable urchins have been outclassed. Man, what’s it like to live in this kind of world? All the women are tanned and relaxed looking, all the men have whitened and capped teeth. It’s God’s country here, folks.

  “I see you’re ogling the celebrities,” Will says, appearing at my side with a glass of red wine and a plate filled with delicacies. There are some sliders with actual Kobe beef and mozzarella cheese, along with crispy fish tacos. It is so gloriously, wonderfully real food that for a second I think I’m hallucinating.

  “Where did you smuggle this in from?” I nearly shove my face into the plate.

  “When they’re trying to raise money, Bay of Dreams realizes they need to be a little more accommodating towards other lifestyles.” Will winks at me, and snatches a meatball slider for himself. I try to eat carefully, just so I don’t end up with a face full of sauce. Then I’d have to lick it clean. Or get Will to. And that would be both gross and arousing, and that could lead to some questionable behavior.

  Like this entire evening isn’t questionable behavior. Will holds out his hand when I’m done, which is pretty fast. Damn, expensive beef tastes good.

  “I think they’re playing our song,” he says. One of the parents, a pop-punk rocker who was an alt-rock god back in the 90s, has gotten onstage and is singing about how trees are our friends, and about how trees should be the ones running giant corporations. I start snort-laughing, and thankfully Will joins in. “Seriously, though. Let’s dance.”

  “No one else is. Everyone’s too floored by the purity of the music.”

  “Don’t you like standing out? I thought that’s what you’re best at,” he murmurs.

  “Ah yes, child of clowns. Like I said before, my childhood dream was to run away and live with an accountant’s family.” I give him my hand. “However, occasionally standing out is not a bad thing. That’s what I tell the kids.”

  “They’re lucky to have a teacher like you.” Will keeps us to the side, a little out of sight so that not everyone can wonder why the temporary teacher is grinding against one of the parents. Still, there’s plenty of room to move here, and he moves exceptionally well. As a matter of fact, there’s no grinding going on here. It’s more elegant slow dancing, though his hand does skim down my back to just—just—come close to grasping me in a, shall we say, more intimate manner. Classy and still tinged with some lust; that’s perfect.

  If Cinderella came to the ball right now, she’d probably look down on my dress, but she’d be envious of the guy I’m with. Say what you will about him, Prince Charming is kind of a bore. Will Munroe is not.

  “I have something to tell you,” I whisper in his ear. I peek over his shoulder, and find that no one’s looking at us.

  “What’s that?”

  Take a deep breath, Chelle. You can do this. “I’m going to miss you when you go to Tokyo.”

  There. It’s out. Will keeps us moving, but doesn’t respond. Okay, maybe I can take it back. Maybe I can pretend to faint. Maybe I can kick him right in the shin, because he made me think this was okay, dammit. Maybe I should stop panicking and wait for his actual response.

  “Interesting. Because I’m going to miss you as well.” His lips just brush my cheek as he pulls away, and every inch of me is on fire. He gazes down into my eyes. Thank god I wore my heels, so he doesn’t have to stoop.

  As the alt-rocker sings about peace in our time and free, kindly sourced candy for every child, I look into Will’s eyes and imagine that maybe I’m done with being casual. Maybe, just maybe, there’ll be a reason for me to stick around this city even if Bay of Dreams doesn’t work out.

  16

  Will

  I’m going to miss this goddamn plane. As I pull up to Bay of Dreams, all I can think of is getting my ass down to LAX in record time. There’s a flight for Tokyo leaving in a few hours, and if I’m not on it, I might as well start swimming to Japan. Bert won’t be happy if his rock star can’t make a connecting flight on time. You get a reputation for being flaky like that.

  But I’m not going anywhere until I drop these bacon-covered donuts off. A man has to provide for the woman in his life, gentlemen. Don’t let anyone tell you different. Especially when the woman in your life loves bacon; then you need to keep her. I get out of the car and jog down to the auditorium, white cardboard box balanced.

  I swear, she’s going to think I’m fattening her up or something, I think as I push the door open. Then again, she runs in the canyon nearly every day. She can handle a few choice carbs.

  My eyes scan all the painted backdrops on the stage, and I admire the handiwork. The past week I’ve been helping Chelle get everything painted. That’s right, I work a stressful day in a high rise building only to drive over to my daughter’s school and slap blue paint onto a two dimensional orphanage. I’m a man of many talents. But for Amelia, I’m happy to do anything. And for Chelle, I’m happy to do anything to her, so it works out pretty damn nicely.

  Though we had to wash the paint off her back that one time. It was sexy.

  No one’s inside—Chelle’s probably taking the kids on a nature hike, the one she was telling me about today. I go up the stairs and slide the donut box onto a table by the side of the stage. Whenever Chelle gets back here and starts running cues with the kids, she’ll find these babies. Unless the kids do, in which case I hope she wrestles them to the floor. Artisanal donuts are expensive.

  I’m half hoping the door will swing open and they’ll all wander inside, but I get the feeling the kids wouldn’t appreciate me groping their teacher on my way to the car. Or they might, like the little perverts they are.

  As I pass out the door, I acknowledge that the place looks pretty damn great. The background painting of Koreatown, the police car they rigged together entirely out of cardboard—Chelle’s a miracle worker. She’s good at what she does. Competency is sexy, kids.

  It’s probably a good thing I don’t see her as I get back in my car and head for the airport. Christ, I’m barely going to make it as is. Chelle’s a distraction, and in the past, I haven’t wanted too many of those. But with Amelia needing me around more, and Chelle needing me more (which I will never complain about), distractions are abundant these days.

  Getting through the swarms of people at the terminal, however, is not a distraction I’m that crazy about. There isn’t enough duty free scotch in the world to make up for that. Though taking a business class flight to Tokyo is an excellent place and time to make use of said scotch.

  I can imagine Chelle in the seat next to mine, probably fiddling with the controls to lay the chair out fully. God, she’d probably be amazing to travel with. Probably would be well up to join the mile high club.

  I need to stop getting hard on airplanes. It’s distracting.

  We’re up in the air when I decide to take advantage of the plane’s Wi-Fi. I shoot Chelle a text, just to test the waters:

  On my way. Hope you ran the show tonight.

  There. Doesn’t give too much away. I’m about to tear into a complimentary bag of wasabi flavored peanuts when I get a text back.

  What was that? I can’t hear you around this AMAZING BACON DONUT

  This is followed by five donut emojis, to get her point across. Grinning, I text back.

  Texts are for your eyes, bacon donuts are for your mouth.
Where do your ears come into this?

  A second later:

  Well somebody’s got their flawless knowledge of anatomy working overtime ;)

  I’ve got more knowledge of anatomy than she’s even guessed at yet. I make sure to tell her, and she seems to appreciate it.

  Know what you can bring me back? You have to keep it warm, though, she texts. Smiling, I wait until she sends her follow up. Teriyaki. They closed my favorite restaurant on Olive Street and now I don’t know what to do with my life.

  I try not to laugh too loudly. It goes back and forth between us for a while, until she’s got to drive home and I’ve got, well, a shit ton of crappy NBC programming to catch up on. The rest of the flight to Tokyo goes off without a bump. When I land, I’m in a sleek black car in seemingly ten seconds flat, and soon after I’m in the Hilton gazing down from thirty stories up on the city streets below. The hotel room is crisp and business elegant, with smooth gray carpeting, an entire wall of windows, white linen sheets and low black furniture.

  This is the kind of room, and the kind of trip, that billionaire assholes are supposed to relish in. When Suzonne was still in the picture, I’d have been on this trip with a huge fucking grin on my face and two bags of duty free scotch at my side on the plane. Partly as a way to get free of my problems at home, partly because I wanted to be one of those assholes. Maybe still could, if I paid attention.

  But Amelia’s living in a yurt somewhere on a mountain now, which still doesn’t sit well with me. Even being away from her for two weeks is going to be an issue in the custody battle. Chelle, meanwhile, is probably dancing with Archie around her cluttered apartment. I’ve been to that place a couple of times now, and it is exactly where you think a woman raised by clowns would live. No human being should own that many silk and chiffon scarves. I don’t know what she does with all of them.