Bicoastal Babe (32 page)

“She’s like a bad gift that keeps on giving.” I grimace.

“So what’s going on with all that? Why won’t you tell me?”

I walk another block in silence, then I suddenly stop.

“Victor.” I bite my lip. “Remember on our first date, when you asked me what I loved about New York?”

He nods.

“Well, I think I finally have an answer.”

He waits.

“It’s the height.”

“The height?”

“Yes. Everything is so high up. The buildings are so tall that you can’t even see the sun sometimes.”

Victor looks amused. “So?”

“Well, when you look around, you can never see very far because you’re always surrounded and closed in by the city circling you and buzzing on all sides. So it forces you to look up. To look to the sky. And then you see the height. Everything so high up that it’s hard to even make out the end of it. If you look too long, you start to feel dizzy. But the minute you look down and catch your balance, you feel like looking right back up again.”

“So what does all that mean?”

“I guess it’s the feeling of always wanting to do that. To reach up and try to touch the stars. Or at least touch the top of the highest building. It makes me want to be more, to always reach higher. It’s the energy, but not necessarily the energy of the city. It’s the energy inside of me. I’ve never felt that before. And I don’t feel it anywhere else. Does that make any sense?”

Victor nods. “Of course.”

“But then again, the height of it all is so overwhelming. Like I could reach and reach and reach, and never even skim the windows of the tenth floor. That scares me.”

“Lindsey. New York is like its own little world. It’s why most of the people who were born here never even leave the island. New York can be anything you want it to be. And you can be anything you want when you’re in it.”

“But I can’t stop wondering… if I never reach the top of the building, will I ever really be happy?”

Victor laughs. “Happiness isn’t touching the top of the building, silly girl. It’s all in the reach.” He taps my nose affectionately. “Of course you’ll be happy. Don’t you see? You already are.”

I stare at Victor for a moment, then smile and take his hand.

“Let’s go ice-skating at Rockefeller Center,” I tell him, and quickly cover his mouth with my mitten to muffle his groans. “And then I want to go to Serendipity for that famous frozen hot chocolate.”

Victor’s eyeballs have practically rolled to the back of his head, but I keep a tight clamp on his mouth.

“I know. Tourist torture territory. But that’s what I want to do tonight. And you have no choice. You’re taking me. Okay?”

Under my mitten Victor stops his moaning, but his eyes have not yet agreed. I clamp my hand even harder.

“Yes?”

After a moment he reluctantly nods his head and I let go.

“I’m going to kill you,” he says, spitting mitten fuzz from his lips.

“Don’t bother,” I tell him. “We’re going ice-skating. I’m probably going to kill myself.”

Victor laughs, grabs my other hand, and we walk toward Rockefeller Center.

•   •   •

The next morning I cab it back to the apartment to pack up all my belongings. Jen is out, which is my only relief in the midst of the gloom I feel about having to potentially walk away from everything I’ve found and become on the great island of Manhattan.

I haven’t told Victor about
The Pulse
, and he has no idea that I may never come back. I struggled all night, going back and forth, up until the moment I kissed him and walked out of his building. But in the end, I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t tell him. I couldn’t leave myself open to the uncertainty of his reaction. Maybe he’d have tried to convince me to stay. Or maybe he wouldn’t have. Both scenarios would’ve been equally hard.

Because I was wrong. I do know all I need to know about Victor. And I do know all I need to know about New York.

And now I also know what it is that I don’t know yet, but need to know in order to
know.
And you know what? It doesn’t have a New York zip code.

I
t’s funny how you can feel the change between New York and L.A. even from the airplane. When you take off from JFK in the late afternoon, the windows are coated with a thin glaze of ice, and you can feel the coldness seep through the walls of the plane. Then as you fly west, the sky starts to get brighter, the ice melts, and you’re suddenly flinging away the airplane blanket because you’re so hot from the sunshine beaming in the windows. And as I step out of the airport to see a line of palm trees swaying in the soft breeze, I realize once again that my two homes could not be more different.

Which gets me thinking. Given that I did not get around to telling Victor about
The Pulse
, if I tell Danny, then California will have the unfair advantage. So I’m going to have to do this blind.

•   •   •

“You might not come back?”

Well, not totally blind. Carmen needs to know. I mean, I could spend the whole week absorbing and pondering L.A. just like I did with New York, then throw it all in a blender with a shot of intuition and a splash of instinct, but what the hell would be the point of that? If I had any sense of instinct whatsoever, I’d be more like Liz Gordon, and less like the Midwestern transplant who just spent a week desperately trying to spot someone jerking off in the Manhattan subway, just in case I didn’t make it back in a while.

“What I need from you this week is objective help in making this decision, not biased influence from someone who likes having a pal around to drink wine spritzers with.”

“Well, sister, you came to the wrong place. How am I supposed to be objective? California kicks New York’s ass, any way you bend it. And by the way, it’s almost winter. Spritzers have flown south, my trend queen.”

“Don’t be mean.”

“I’m sorry. But if you leave, I’m really going to be sad. I’d miss you, Lindsey. You mean a lot more to me than just a pal to drink with. I thought you felt the same way.”

“I do! I’m sorry.” I reach out and touch her arm. “I didn’t mean it that way. I’m being very selfish right now. In more ways than you know. But I feel like I have to be in order to make this decision. This isn’t easy for me.”

“I know.”

She reaches over and hugs me, and it occurs to me that until now I hadn’t given much consideration to Carmen, and the loss I’ll feel if I can’t see her anymore. Shit. This is getting even more complicated than I thought.

•   •   •

The first thing on my agenda is making sure the last edition of
The Pulse
measures up to the rest. I want to go out with a bang. It’s the least I can do for Liz, for the agency, and for the minuscule hope that someone might recognize my value as a trend-tracker, and hire me after this whole thing is finished.

So I plunge myself into work, and go for three whole days without calling Danny, until he finally calls the apartment.

“Hey, pretty girl. Where you been?”

“I’m here,” I stammer nervously. “I just got in.” See, I’m not nervous that Danny will find out I was here and didn’t call. I’m nervous that the minute I see him, I’m going melt all over and end up even more confused about my life.

“Wanna go surfing?”

“Ha, ha. Why, is the coast guard having a slow day?”

“I thought we could try again.”

“Nobody surfs in the middle of November.”

“Sure, they do. In fact, I heard it’s even becoming a trend.”

“Then I’ll be happy to interview you all about it.”

“Come over. I miss you.”

“Can’t,” I tell him. “I have to go meet the teen panel.”

“How about tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow I’m pulling everything together for the newsletter. Due date is Thursday.”

“When’re you leaving?”

I pause. “Friday.”

Danny pauses too. “So when can I see you?”

I don’t know why I’m so afraid to see him. In New York I spent the whole week with Victor, squeezing in one activity after another. Why do I feel so different now?

“Thursday night,” I say firmly. “I’ll ship it off in the morning, come down to the beach, and we’ll cook up something yummy. Sound like a plan?”

Danny agrees, but he sounds sort of sullen. I should tell him, I know. But I can’t. That would tip the scale in his favor. But wasn’t spending the whole last week with Victor tipping the scale in
his
favor? I can’t tell anymore. This whole thing is happening too fast and definitely way too soon. I need some advice. Sound, solid advice from a wise sensei-like individual who is rich with knowledge and life experience, who can feel my confusion on a higher plane of existence and demystify my inner struggles to finally make it all make sense for me.

•   •   •

“Oh, my God, you should
totally
move to New York.”

“Totally.”

McKenna and Stacey take sips of their ice cream floats, then systematically hand the floats to each other to try.

“Okay, why exactly do you say that?” I’m not fooling around here. I said I wanted advice and I meant it. Maybe my teen panel is not exactly the Yoda-like embodiment of wisdom that I had hoped for, but they’re here and they’re willing to listen. Well, sort of.

“Because think about it, Lindsey.” McKenna slurps her float. “Everyone and their pet hamster wishes they lived in New York. I would so die to live there.”

“I would so die,” Stacey agrees.

“Have you guys ever been there?”

“Who cares!” they scoff. “NYC is the coolest town in the world.”

I hate it when people call a city populated by eight million people a “town.” That annoys the crap out of me. I sigh.

“This sounds like a classic case of ‘the grass is always greener,’” I tell them glumly.

“Listen, Lindsey.” McKenna stands up firmly. “You have to get one thing straight. There is no contest about grass.”

She points dramatically to the grass. “The grass is greener in California.”

And she’s right. This grass is brightly, boldly, robustly green. Greener than any piece of the rare foliage I’ve ever seen in or around New York City.

“But,” McKenna continues, “who the hell cares if the grass is green when you can be in a place that has all that excitement, all that shit going on, nonstop, twenty-four/seven? I mean, seriously here. Who cares about the grass?
Who cares?”

•   •   •

“I made up a song on the way over here,” I tell Danny as he dips little zucchini sticks into seasoned breading and tosses them into his frying pan.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. It’s called, ‘Who Cares about the Grass?’”

Danny looks up from the zucchini and gives me strange smile. I’m sitting on the counter next to the stove, and the hot oil keeps splashing out of the pan onto my arm. “Ow!”

“Are you going to sing it for me?”

“No,” I tell him.

“Then you’re not getting any zucchini.”

“But I love zucchini!”

“Then sing.”

I smile shyly and attempt the chorus before collapsing in a fit of giggles. I don’t know why I’m feeling so giddy and silly.

Danny puts his arms around me and feeds me a bite of zucchini. I wrap my dangling legs around him. “Who cares about the grass…” he ponders. “Very catchy. Prolific question, too.”

“Shut up.” I laugh.

“I care about the grass,” he tells me.

“I know you do. That’s why I like you.”

“Do you?” He pokes my stomach playfully.

“I just said I do.”

“No. Do
you
care about the grass?”

Suddenly I’m not laughing anymore. I’m looking into these big, beautiful blue eyes that feel as expansive as the ocean. Eyes that have a funny way of engulfing me because they feel so real and true, and because they belong to a person who, yes, does indeed care about the grass.

I slide my fingers across his face and hold his head in my hands, never blinking or pulling my eyes away from his. “Turn the stove off,” I tell him.

•   •   •

An hour later I am entangled in Danny’s flannel sheets, wearing nothing but a lazy smile and a pair of Danny’s big fluffy socks. We’ve already had sex twice, but instead of conking out or going back to the food, Danny is lying next to me, holding my hand and kissing my fingers as he softly hums my stupid grass song under his breath.

His sheets and blanket are a little old and tattered, but his bed is really soft and comfy, and it smells like April Fresh Downy. This is a bed I could wake up in on a Saturday morning and just not get out of all day long.

And the sex was absolutely wonderful. It was everything I’d expect from Danny – soft, slow, and delicious every moment through. And I don’t want to throw a crouton into the already boiling-over pot of cheese fondue, but I just can’t help myself. So for whatever it’s worth, it also felt “special.” There, I said it. I mean, it’s no big deal, really. Maybe the “special” part came from the fact that we waited so long, and there was such an incredible buildup to the actual event. But when I look over at Danny, I know that’s not true. Which is what propels me to break yet another one of my rules.

“Danny, I have to tell you something.” I put my hand on his arm, and he turns toward me and smiles. I look away.

“My job is ending. And…”

Danny sighs in sympathy and gives my hand a squeeze. “And what?”

I can’t do it. I just can’t. But I have to.

“And what?” he asks again.

I take a deep breath. “And I’m moving to New York full-time.”

I feel my hand loosen in his, then hit the sheet, and I realize that he has let go and dropped it.

“Please don’t be mad at me.”

He is quiet.

“I had to make a decision, and I just…”

“So you’re not coming back,” he says slowly.

“Well… not regularly.”

Danny looks at me for a long moment, then turns his back, pulls on his shorts, and walks out of the room. A moment later I hear the door slam.

I claw through the sheets, looking for my underwear and shorts, then pull on one of his sweatshirts and run after him. When I find him, he’s all the way down by the water, sitting on the sand on the beach. I take my shoes off and walk up behind him. The moon is just a sliver, but it’s casting a pretty bright glow over the ocean, and over us.