Bicoastal Babe (25 page)

“That’s me.” I laugh. “Shark bait with the white-hot passion.”

At about one in the morning Danny grabs a couple more beers, and we go for a barefoot walk on the beach. He tells me about his family and his grandparents in Nebraska, and how they wanted him to go to business school and couldn’t accept that his heart belonged to the sea. I tell him about Steve, and how my life would’ve been ruined if we’d gotten married like I thought I wanted to.

Then we walked awhile in silence, listening to the waves crashing against the shore. Normally, I would consider such an activity to be pure cliché from a cheesy romance novel, but when I look up at the soft moon and feel the warm sand between my toes, I let everything go and lose myself in the moment. Which is also pure cliché, but I’m telling you, on this particular night, it works.

That is, it works up until I step on a jagged seashell and scream bloody murder when I look down to see my big toe nearly cut in half.

“Shhh… It’s okay,” Danny reassures me.

I want to cry, but I gulp back the tears in fear of looking like a ninny.

“It’s okay,” Danny says again. “I know it hurts.”

He sits me down on the sand, rips some fabric off his shaggy shirt, wraps it around my gushing toe, and ties it in a tight knot. Then he lifts me up and carries me in his arms back to his apartment.

“Why is it that I never need a hero until I get around you?” I wonder aloud.

“You should think about that,” he tells me. “I’d love to hear the answer.”

When we get there, he lays me down on his couch, kisses the tip of my nose, and gives me a cherry Popsicle. Then he pulls out an emergency kit and bandages my toe properly. I’m staring at him in utter disbelief that a guy could be so caring and calm and capable – particularly to a girl whose mere presence seems to be growing into a fatalistic health hazard. And somewhere around there, I must have fallen asleep. Because when I open my eyes the clock says five forty-five, and Danny is sitting next to me on his couch, watching me.

“Oh!” I try to jump up, but wince from the pain in my toe.

“Careful there.” Danny lifts me to my feet slowly.

“I’m so sorry. I should probably let you get some sleep,” I stammer.

Danny looks out the window, points toward the first glimpse of red sun peeking over the horizon, and says, “Too late.”

“Well, yeah. But I should… you know… get going.”

Danny walks me to the door. I’m in a haze. “Thank you,” I tell him. “For the lovely cold dinner. And for everything else too.”

“Don’t thank me.” He wraps me up in a big bear hug. “Just come back again.”

“When?” I blurt out. Nice. Very coy.

“Tomorrow night?”

I like his directness. “You don’t play games, do you?” I ask.

“Why, do you want me to?”

“Games are actually highly underrated,” I tell him knowingly.

“Well, then, I’ll make sure I have my checkers dusted off by tomorrow night.”

Wobbling down the stairs on the side of Danny’s house, I can feel his eyes following me. When I get to the bottom, I turn back. There’s something I want to make clear.

“I wouldn’t have slept with you, you know,” I inform him.

Danny laughs and shrugs. “I wouldn’t have tried.”

And wouldn’t you know it? I made it all the way back to Hollywood without even
thinking
about having a cigarette.

Limping into my apartment a half hour later, I can hear the phone ringing, but I can’t get to it fast enough. It’s not even seven in the morning, so it can be one of only two people: Liz, who can never seem to remember that it’s earlier in California than it is in the rest of the world, and Jen, who’s well aware of the time difference, but couldn’t care less if she wakes me up.

“Lindsey, darling.” As I open the fridge for some orange juice, I can hear Liz on the answering machine. “Great news. Our clients are going crazy over the newsletter. They absolutely love it!”

I completely forgot—the newsletter!

“I need you on a plane today. Thanks to our wonderful PR team,
The New York Times
is doing a story on
The Pulse
, and they’re hosting a party tomorrow night that you and Jen are invited to. You have to be there so they can get some quotes from you. So get your ass to the airport, my lovely girl, and get ready to enjoy your well-earned success.”

She hangs up.

T
here are three things in life that I consider to be a total and complete waste of time. We spend so much of our days doing these things that it probably shaves decades off of our lives, seriously. The first is waiting in line. Think of how many minutes per year are spent standing in line, annoyed to all hell, as the store checkout person, DMV employee, or whatever moronic individual up front engages in a ritualistic series of fucking up every single transaction presented, as if each transaction were his or her very first. If you add it all up, it’s a lot of time standing in line.

Then think about the time we spend getting ready. Every single day gives birth to a new opportunity to shower, shampoo, condition, wash, scrub, exfoliate, moisturize, shave, peel, wax, brush, floss, comb, mousse, blow-dry, curl, straighten, spray, apply, blend, pluck, paint, and primp. And that’s before we even get out of the bathroom. It doesn’t count the endless hours spent picking out an outfit, accessories, jewelry, shoes, and perfume. If we could eliminate the massive chunk of time dedicated to this ridiculousness, we could expand our horizons and enhance our spiritual value with new hobbies like tap dancing or organizing Save the Whales benefits. But noooooo. We have to get ready.

And then, directly
after
we get ready, we typically do the one thing in life that I would trade for absolutely anything. I would spend one minute each and every morning plunging my head into a boiling pot of acid if I didn’t have to spend hours, days, cumulative months and years of my young, precious life
in transit.
Going somewhere. Getting there. Driving there. Walking there. Flying there. Planes, trains, and automobiles. Along with air trams, subways, buses, trolleys, elevators, and everything surrounding all of them – like waiting rooms, security lines, parking lots, ticket counters, rush-hour traffic, and the list goes on. Being bicoastal makes things a lot worse. But I swear, if I sat down and added up all the time I waste in transit, I would look at the number for about ten seconds, and then never leave the house again.

But I didn’t have that luxury today, because shortly after Liz’s phone call I was in my rental car to LAX (one hour), on the Avis bus back to the terminal (ten minutes), on a plane to JFK (five hours), and in a cab to the city (ninety minutes in rush hour). And, of course, the ten minutes that I procrastinated by sitting on the stairs of the brownstone, right after it hit me that when I go inside, Jen will be there, and she’s not leaving New York for two more days.

Not that I’m complaining about this one.
The New York Times
? Now that is sweet. Sweeter than sweet. So sweet that when I finally get to read the article, I’m going to read it naked and covered in full-fat Reddi-wip, lying on Victor’s patio as he eats the maraschino cherries from the chocolate sauce dripped across the cream on my body.
Sweet!

“So how do you feel?” Jen has a huge smile for me when I come through the door.

“About what?”

“About the party?
The New York Times
? Our brilliant newsletter? We have to celebrate!”

I look at her with suspicion. “You want to celebrate with me?”

“Of course! It’s our baby, isn’t it?”

“I’m just a little surprised, that’s all.”

“Well, that makes two of us.” Jen walks to the kitchen, pulls an open bottle of champagne from the fridge, and pours two glasses. “I have to say, you’ve surprised me, Lindsey. You’ve done a fantastic job. I think you may have even surprised yourself. Am I wrong?”

She hands me one of the champagne glasses and I take it hesitantly.

“So I apologize,” she continues. “This is not about me and it’s not about you. It’s our thing together. And we should be proud of it.” She clinks my glass.

Maybe Jen is right. When I came on board here, I didn’t exactly project the impression that I could deliver the goods, and my first month didn’t do much to contradict that. So maybe she’s had the right to feel the way she has. I’m not sure I trust her, though. But I do need advice about something, and she’s the one to ask.

“Jen,” I begin cautiously, “tell me something. You date guys out here in New York, right?”

She nods.

“And you also date guys in L.A.”

She nods again. “Of course. Why?”

“So, does that ever become… a problem?”

“Ahhhh, I see…” She nods again, this time knowingly. “You’ve stumbled into a little menage-a-trois of the heart, is that it?”

“Something like that,” I mumble.

“One here, one there… or more than one?”

“No, just one. Here. And one there.”

“Do they know about each other?”

“No.”

“Good. Keep it that way.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Trust me, Lindsey. You’ve got enough conflict going on in your head. You don’t need it on the table for open discussion.”

“So, how do you do it?”

“Well, do you like this one? It’s that Wall Street guy, right? Vincent?”

“Victor. And yes, I like him.”

“And do you like the other one?”

“Yes.”

“Which one do you like more?”

I can feel my face twisting up into a knotted pretzel. “That’s the thing. They’re so different.”

“Of course they are. If they weren’t, you wouldn’t need both of them.”

“So how do I do it?”

“What do you mean? What’s so hard about it? Just have fun, Lindsey. It’s all about fun. You’re a jet-setter now. A bicoastal
babe.
So just go with it. Be the babe!”

“That’s what Carmen said.”

“See? Fatty knows what she’s talking about.”

“Do you mind not being so rude?” I snap. “Carmen’s my friend.”

“I say it with the utmost affection,” Jen reassures me. “I’m sure she’s very nice. And she’s right about the guys too. Just teach your mind to compartmentalize, that’s all. When the plane touches down here, put the other one out of your mind. And vice versa. It’s easier than you think. Trust me. I have the whole thing down pat – and I’m juggling more guys than you are.”

“I’ll bet,” I say under my breath.

“So. Should we order some pizza for our little slumber party?” She reaches for the phone book.

“Uh… I was actually thinking of going over to Victor’s.” I wasn’t actually thinking of it until right now. Victor has no idea I’m even in town. But I’ve had my little friendly moment with Jen, and that’s enough for one night.

“Oh, really!” Jen whistles. “Victor tonight, and the other one… when’s the last time you saw the other one?”

“Last night.” I gulp.

She lets out a hoot of laughter and claps with glee. “You see?” She winks. “It’s working already.”

•   •   •

On the way over to Victor’s, I break Jen’s rule and think about the date I was supposed to have tonight with Danny. He understood, of course, and we rescheduled for next week. The thing is, I can’t just date Danny. But I can’t just date Victor. I don’t want to. I’ve never believed in long-distance relationships, and I’m in each city only fifty percent of the time. So if I chose one or the other, I’d be living
half my
life involved in a long-distance relationship, and I know exactly what that would be like. The entire time I was in the other city, I’d be pining to be back with the guy, counting the minutes until I got on the plane. Which would render the excitement of bicoastal living pointless, because I would come to love and enjoy one city and resent my time in the other one.

Besides, Victor has never mentioned being exclusive with me, so I’m sure he’s dating plenty of other women (this knowledge lives in a tiny room in the back of my mind that I’m well aware exists, but has a
do not enter
sign on the door). And I’ve been on only one date with Danny. Who knows how many girls he lures out to sea, only so he can rescue them from the evil surf and woo them with his blond, hunky heroism. The bottom line is, neither one of these guys is my boyfriend.

So the only person I have to answer to is myself. And tonight, myself is in the mood for a little fun and celebration.

When Victor opens the door, he’s in silk pajamas holding a martini, and I can hear a baseball game on in the background.

“Are you alone?” I ask, and hold my breath. I never called to tell him I was coming over.

And he does look surprised, but pleased surprised. “Not anymore.”

“Do you have any Reddi-wip?” I ask. “Because you’re going to need it.”

An evil grin spreads across his face. “Tonight?”

“No.” I take the martini from his hand and drain it. “But very soon.”

•   •   •

“I really have to say, little Lindsey Miller, that I’m actually quite impressed.” Victor slides his arm around my waist as we enter the
New York Times
party at the fancy restaurant Gramercy Tavern.

“You should be,” I tell him. “You’re not the only one who gets invited to the right places with the right people.”

“My places and people are boring. You’re lucky that you do something fun. Something that interests you. That challenges you.” Victor stares off into the distance, deep in thought.

“Victor. If you’re not happy in your career, why don’t you think about making a change?” No response. “Victor?”

He’s half here and half somewhere else. “Yeah, sorry. You know what?” he muses. “I am thinking about that. About making a move into something… Well, I just need to find the right angle.” He scratches his chin. “Something that’s still a money position, but that’s more… creative.”

“Well, I’d be happy to brainstorm ideas with you.”

But whatever idea universe he was just visiting in his mind, he suddenly snaps out of it. “So anyway, what’s this party for?”

“One of their oldest editors is leaving the paper. All the writers will be here, and they invited us so they could get a couple quick quotes for their story on
The Pulse
, without having to formally interview us.”