“Hey, it’s okay. It’s going to be okay”
“How is this going to be okay? How am I going to get myself out of this? What am I going to tell my girlfriends?”
“They love you, and so do your viewers. We’ll figure it out.”
“I am an idiot. I am a huge idiot.”
“No, but you are the most pig-headed person I know.”
“The most!”
“The absolute and most.”
“The most pig-headed, hot-headed, stubborn person in all of San Francisco.”
He scoffs. “In San Francisco? Try the world, baby”
I step away and reach for a tissue. I blow my nose. “I’ve made a big mess out of my life.”
“Why don’t you get some sleep and we’ll figure this out on Monday, okay? Go on that date with the guy you like and we’ll figure this out on Monday.”
I nod and walk him to the door, then give him a hug.
On Monday I will go Gershwin & Gershwin in my video blog: Let’s Call the Whole Thing Off. Yes, that’s what I’ll do. It’ll be simple, it’ll be easy. We can now return to our regularly scheduled programming. It’ll be a piece of cake.
He leaves and I head to my living room, sinking down in the couch, feeling a strange sense of peace. I’m not the same ball of rage I’ve been. Anger doesn’t feel as good anymore. I’ve grown weary of being angry. Tired of being mad.
I want to feel something else. I want to be able to feel something else. I want to let something else in.
Someone else.
That is, if that someone else wants to be let in.
I reach for my phone. I’m not ready yet to call, but I can send a text. I can manage that much. So I open a note to Chris, and I type.
I can’t wait to see you tomorrow.
I hit send, and that small little action feels like the start of a big step.
Chapter Fifteen
I spend more time than usual getting ready for my Friday night date. And since I’ve never been one to speed-dress, that means I take a few hours, and I enjoy every single one of the minutes. Tonight’s date with Chris feels like a new beginning. It feels like a real first date, but with someone I’m already sure I like. So I shave my legs, and spread the softest pomegranate lotion into my skin, thinking of how it would feel if Chris’ hands were the ones on my legs. I blow out my hair, imagining his fingers twined in my hair.
I do my make-up as I listen to all my favorite songs, like I’ve Got a Crush on You and Fly me to the Moon, feeling that sweet possibility in the words. It’s as if I’m living in the lyrics, wrapped up in the hope that they might deliver for me. I even find myself swaying to the words as I swipe on my blush.
I grab a skirt, a cute little bluish-green corduroy number, pull on my fuchsia boots, then pick a magenta-colored short sleeve sweater, near enough in color to complement the boots, far enough away so as not to be matchy-match. I make my way to my jewelry collection on my bureau. I choose a black necklace with a big black plastic heart on it and a bright pink fake gem in the middle of that. I push a trio of bracelets onto my right wrist – light pink, aqua and light blue. I switch from the lime-green purse to a basic black clutch, say good-bye to my dog, and catch a cab.
When I get out of the car, I see Chris, five feet in front of me, wearing headphones and holding an iPod. The studio he shoots promos at is near Circa Rose, so he must have walked here. Nerves slam into me. All that warm fuzziness of my alone time flies away, and now I’m faced with the does-he-or-doesn’t-he-like-me dilemma. After all, he didn’t text me back last night. But when he sees me, he smiles and takes the earphones out. His smile warms me.
“What are you listening to?”
“A podcast.”
“On what?”
“You’re going to laugh.”
“So make me laugh, Chris McCormick,” I say playfully as we reach Circa Rose.
“It’s on how to build a car.”
“You’re going to build a car? Like from scratch?”
He shrugs. “I’m thinking about it,” he says as he opens the door for me, then pulls out a stool for me when we reach the bar. I sit down, careful to cross my legs. My corduroy skirt isn’t butt-cheek length, but it’s not long either. The bartender appears. I order a grapefruit juice and vodka, Chris a beer. An image flashes through my mind – or maybe it’s my senses – of the taste of beer on his lips. I can sort of taste the cold fizz, the slight chill from the drink, mixed with his breath. And I want to taste it for real. I want to tell him the contest is off. But how do I broach it especially when I don’t know if he feels the same way?
He taps his iPod. “I’ve got podcasts on how to make your own TV, how to get your computer to go faster, how to build your own Web cam.”
There’s my entry. A joke to slide into the serious.
I smack my forehead. “I forgot my iCam. I forgot my computer. I’ve been video recording the dates, so the viewers can vote.”
“Are you like the biggest dork in the world or what? What about the cat camera I fixed for you?”
The bartender returns with our drinks. Chris pays immediately before I have the chance to reach into my little black bag.
“I forgot that too.”
He laughs and shakes his head, his hair falling in his eyes as he leans closer to me. I so want to reach out and touch his hair, but he never responded to my text last night, so maybe this is all just business for him. I press my palms against the bar, so I don’t start running my fingers through his hair here and now.