Bicoastal Babe (24 page)

And that’s what I’m still thinking about as I lie here now, feeling my eyes finally close and my body drift toward sleep.

But just as I’m almost out, the phone next to the bed rings, jolting me awake.

“Lindsey.” It’s Liz. “Are you sleeping?”

“No,” I mumble, barely audible.

“Good. Because I love,
love,
LOVE your bucket idea. I love it!”

I sit up in bed, rubbing my eyes. “You do?”

“Yes, dear. I love it. I want to get it in this issue.”

“But the issue is almost finished. It goes to print on Wednesday morning.”

“Which is why I need you to get on it right away. Stop the presses. Redo it. Work it in. I know it’s a lot, but you can do it.”

Shit—I’m so tired I can’t even see the wall in front of me.

“Whatever else you have going on, reschedule it. I need you to pull through on this. Okay?”

It’s clear that her “Okay?” does not fit into the category of rhetorical questions. I have no choice here. I haven’t slept a wink, but for the next forty-eight hours, I’m about to become Starbucks’ million-dollar customer.

•   •   •

“I told you,” Carmen says knowingly. “I told you so.”

“Nothing’s going to happen. We’re going to have a nice time together, and that’s it.”

The wonderful friend that she is, she is cooking me scrambled eggs and toast to complement my first (but certainly not last) double espresso of the day.

“So what about Victor?” she asks.

I groan. “What about him? I still like him, of course. I still want to date him, definitely. But he seems so far away. New York seems so far away.”

“It is so far away,” she reminds me.

“But when I’m there,
this
seems so far away too.”

“So go with it.” She shrugs. “Date them both. What’s the problem?”

“I don’t know. What kind of life is that?”

“Lindsey. You’re bicoastal. You don’t have a life. You have two.” She sets a plate of eggs down in front of me. “That’s the way it is, so stop fighting it and let yourself enjoy.”

It occurs to me that in addition to traveling between two coasts, I’m actually starting to create a life for myself – in both cities. When I took this job I wanted my life to be more exciting, but I didn’t expect it to necessarily become schizophrenic. But maybe Carmen is right. Why not enjoy myself, no matter where I am or whom I’m with at the time? I chose this path and I should embrace it.

The rest of the day is a bitter struggle reminiscent of college, when I used to pull habitual all-nighters – sometimes two in a row – right before each term paper was due. Tonight was no different. Sometime around midnight, I think my head actually fell right onto the computer keyboard, because when I woke up six hours later, my forehead was indented with a Macintosh apple, and my buckets were followed by fifteen pages of gggggggggggggggggggggggggg.

The next day is no better, and add to it that I have to get on the phone with Jen, so we can agree on all the changes to the newsletter.

“So where’d you get the buckets from?” she asks in a voice coated with sugar but loaded with bitter envy.

“I made them up. They’re new.”

“Nothing’s new, Lindsey. Just tell me.” She’s struggling to be nicey-nice, but I can tell that she’s about to crawl through the phone cord and strangle me because she didn’t think of it first.

“Jen, we don’t have a lot of time. And we really need to pull this together. It goes to print tomorrow morning. So can we just get through it? Please?”

“Whatever you say, Lindsey.”

When I go to bed that night, I do a deep-breathing exercise and remind myself that my first official installment of
The Pulse
is almost finished, and there will be nothing more I can do. I just have to wait, and hope that the agency and all our clients don’t use it for toilet paper at the annual holiday jubilee party.

I remember that I have a date with Danny on Thursday night and I smile, because I know that just being around him will calm me as I prepare for New York, and the anticipated (or dreaded) verdict on all my hard work.

•   •   •

I love getting ready for a first date. It’s an hour and a half of guaranteed anxious anticipation that is unrivaled by any other event, and tonight is no exception. I feel a little sick to my stomach, but I’m also smiling into the mirror like a wild-eyed lunatic as I patter through the ritual of beautification. I didn’t run around town today making all the usual salon stops, but I did spend a couple hours out by the pool in effort to capture and exude something more natural. And now, as I gaze at the result, I realize that it was a couple of hours well spent.

Particularly well spent, because on my way out to the pool this morning, I found a FedEx box propped against the door, which I ripped open like a five-year-old on Christmas morning. And there it was:
The Pulse
, by Jen Savage and Lindsey Miller. With a huge picture of me and my New York teen panel smack on the cover next to the first headline: “Teens Tell All to Gordon-Taylor’s Lindsey Miller.”

The minute I looked at it, I jumped up and down, thinking that it was the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen. Then I collapsed onto a pool chair and spent the next two hours poring over every word of every page. My online study, my buckets, my interviews – all my hard work is right there on the page, in glorified detail for the world to see. But I tried to remind myself that just because I like it so much that I want to decorate every wall of every room with the cover doesn’t mean that anyone else is going to give a crap about the content. Time will tell.

After a few hours I calmed down and remembered that I have another reason to be excited and nervous: my date. So here I stand, excited because I want to go on this date, despite all mental efforts to downplay it. And nervous because I don’t know where it’s going to take me.

I run my new ceramic flatiron through my hair until it shines, and I slip on a white sundress to show off the tan. The sun has given my cheeks a healthy pink glow, which I polish off with a light touch of mascara and a sweep of berry lip gloss. I spritz on a splash of Summer Honey body spray, then step back to check it all out. I like what I see, but I know in the depths of understanding that if I don’t plan ahead, it will surely be ruined by the onslaught of nicotine that I’m about to suck down in the car out of sheer anxiety.

Desperate times call for desperate measures. Before walking out the door, I scrounge through my suitcase for what I affectionately call the Closet Smoking Emergency Costume – a smattering of attire and accessories worn only in the car, and meant to disguise and repel any trace of cigarette smoke when I emerge.

First, a gigantic, long-sleeved black t-shirt that says “Snap Into A Slim Jim!” and a light blue shower cap, accompanied by a mini-bottle of Scope mouthwash, a Huggies baby wipe (for smoky fingers), and the Summer Honey spray for a last-minute spritzer of delicious. And, of course, a huge pair of sunglasses to hide my identity in case someone I know pulls up next to me at a stoplight. Not that I know anyone in Los Angeles. But it still makes me feel less self-conscious. So into the car I go.

I know I look like a fool – the Marlboro Bandit racing down the freeway, trying to calm my nerves with the drug of death breath. I wonder what he’s making for dinner. Oh, yeah, tacos. Yummy. Should I have brought something? I should have brought something. But I don’t know what he likes. Why can’t we just go out for dinner? That would alleviate the pressure to contribute to the meal. Because he’s poor, I remind myself. Or maybe he’s just romantic. He does seem romantic. But definitely poor too.

As I turn off at the exit, I notice a small grocery market up ahead and peel into the parking lot. Five minutes later I’m standing in line with a tub of chocolate Haagen-Dazs and two plastic spoons, wondering why the hell everyone is staring at me. Then I realize that the Emergency Costume is still on, the shirt hanging like a burlap sack over my pretty dress and dainty white sandals, and the shower cap poofing over my hair. Oh, please. We’re about a mile up the road from the craziness of Venice Beach boardwalk, and
I’m
the freak to behold?

A block before Danny’s house, I pull over and take off the costume. I swish the Scope around my mouth and spit it out the window, then spray a pump or two of the Summer Honey and redo my lip gloss. Perfect.

“Hey, you,” Danny says at the door.

I hold out the Haagen-Dazs and smile. “I come bearing gifts.”

But then he takes a step back and gives me a really weird look. So I give him a weird look back. I don’t understand.

“Come with me,” he says, and grabs my hand. He leads me outside and down the stairs. “Which one is your car?”

I point to the rental parked in front of his house, and he pulls me over to it.

“Are you still smoking?” he asks.

Oh, shit. The Emergency Costume sprang a leak. I’m not here one minute and Wonder Nose is already repulsed by my very presence.

“Are you?” he asks again.

“Sometimes,” I mumble, looking at the ground.

He reaches around and draws my car keys from my other hand. Then he unlocks the car door, crawls in, and snaps open the glove compartment. The pack of cigarettes falls right out into his hand, and he crawls back out and shuts the door. Then he grabs my hand again and leads me to the side of the house, where he tosses the cigarettes into a trash bin. Then he turns around and grins.

“Not anymore,” he says.

Who the fuck does this guy think he is?

But before I have the chance to ask, he’s pulling me back up the stairs, into his apartment, and into his bathroom. There’s a candle lit on the counter, so he doesn’t bother with the light. He opens the medicine cabinet, takes out his toothbrush, and squirts some toothpaste onto it. He turns on the faucet and hands me the toothbrush, the whole time grinning at my obvious shock and dismay.

“Brush,” he demands, holding back a laugh.

Stunned, embarrassed, and incensed, I can’t believe it when I actually take the toothbrush and begin to brush my teeth. Danny hands me a cup of water, but as I swish it around in my mouth, I feel my face begin to redden and my blood begin to boil. I spit out the water.

“Who do you think you are?” I demand angrily.

“I’m the guy who just saved your life,” he says, and slides his arm around my waist. “Again.”

And with that, he pulls me in and kisses me, toothpaste suds and all.

For a second I squirm sharply and try to push him away, but his arms are strong, and he’s not letting go. And his kiss is about the softest thing I’ve ever felt. After a moment I can literally feel my body thawing and melting like icing on a piece of warm chocolate cake.

As the candle flickers behind us, I feel Danny’s lips pull away, and I open my eyes to… Wait. Where’d he go? He’s not even in the bathroom anymore, and I’m standing here with my lips still puckered and my tongue gaggling from my mouth like a hungry baby bird. Somewhere in the background I hear the sound of frying. He’s retreated to the kitchen.

“Beer?” he asks when I walk in.

“Absolutely,” I say. “And I promise this time I’ll drink it.”

He pops open a beer and rubs the top with a slice of lemon. His fridge temperature must be set on high, because the beer is icy-cold and wonderful.

“What are you cooking?”

“You said you wanted fish tacos.”

“But will they stand the test of Malibu Sam’s?”

“They’ll put Malibu Sam’s out of business, if I ever decide on a career change.”

I watch as Danny chops tomatoes, shreds a block of cheese, and scoops the pit out of a big bowl of guacamole.

“Can I help?” I ask. He shakes his head. He’s piling it all onto a huge tray, which he brings over to the coffee table by the sofa. Then he plops down on the floor and motions me over.

It’s hot in the apartment, but there’s a window above the sofa, and the cool breeze feels good. I sit down next to him and kick off my sandals. I feel relaxed, like I’ve just come from a long massage. This is nice. Really nice. And Danny smells really, really good.

“Dig in,” he says, but makes no move toward the food. I smile at him, suddenly overcome by a feeling of shyness. I raise my eyebrow at his suggestion and he takes the shark bait. We smash together and start kissing again, this time for a muchlong time.

I love guys who kiss you slowly. (Okay, Victor does not kiss slowly, but this is not the time or the place for comparisons.) So what was I saying? Right. I love guys who kiss you slowly. My head feels dizzy, and when I finally open my eyes I realize that it’s already dark out, and I am lying on the floor, my hair in a crazy mess, tangled around this delicious guy with warm skin and roaming hands.

Let me point out one important difference: His hands are definitely roaming, but not obnoxiously. He’s not
grabbing
at me like a horny octopus. He’s touching me firmly but softly, like he’s trying to understand who I am by the way my skin feels under his fingertips. I’m out of breath and I feel like I’m drowning in an ocean of butter and honey. Like I said, delicious. Almost too delicious.

“The food’s getting cold,” I whisper, and Danny laughs.

“Getting?”

“What time is it?”

“It’s ten-thirty.”

“Ten-thirty?” I’ve been here almost three hours. I look up at Danny with what I hope is an expression of lusty innocence, but then, as if on cue, my stomach lets out a loud, angry, rumbling growl. Danny laughs again.

“Nothing a cold fish taco can’t cure.”

We dive into the food and start to talk about my surfing disaster. Danny tells me that he’d called the hospital the next day to check up on me, but I’d already been released, so he knew I was fine. He doesn’t seem to mind that I disobeyed his surfing instructions. In fact, when we recall the events of our lesson, he just laughs and calls me his “feisty little city girl.”

He asks about my job, and I spend an hour catching him up on the exciting events of the past two weeks. When I finally shut up, I’m worried that I’m coming off like an egomaniac with diarrhea of the mouth – but Danny seems genuinley interested, and even says that it’s always inspiring to see someone so passionate about their work.