Emily's Reasons Why Not (5 page)

I put the flag back in the hole and coyly walk ahead of him when in reality I am at a loss for words. I remember what my Gram says: “It’s better to say nothing than say something stupid and look like an ass.” Good advice, particularly coming from a seventy-five-year-old woman from Indiana.

“I belong to the Bel-Air, maybe when we get back we can play. Would you like that?” David asks, catching up to me.

YES! I want to scream. I want to go to the club and play golf with my perfect power boyfriend.

He touches my hand. I mumble, “Sure, that would nice.”

He leans down and studies my eyes … I am weak in the knees. He runs his finger over my bottom lip … then kisses me.

It’s raining. Mist, really. The glow from the moon. My cheeks flush from the excitement. Alcohol. The cool drops from heaven washing between us. I’m walking above the ground. Floating next to him as he talks about living at the beach and loving the TV business, graduating from law school, starting in the mailroom at NBC. Recently single. Total bonus!

And ready. Did I mention he said he was ready? Ready for a relationship.

I am ready! Ready. Ready. Ready. He holds my hand and leads me back to his room. We rip off each other’s clothes and cascade onto the bed.

I should have said no. No to the coffee. No to the bagels. No to the drinks. No to the dancing. No to the sex. But I didn’t.

And God, was it all so aaaammmmaaaazzzzinnnggg!

I awake to the repercussions of one’s actions. Lying naked next to the president of my company. Jesus! What have I done? I ease David’s arm off of my hip and gently slip out of the bed and onto the floor with a thud. I make my way to the bathroom and turn on the light.

Headache. I have a headache. I pick up the phone on the wall next to the toilet and call Josh as I wipe the mascara from under my eyes. I pray that Josh will come and do a check of the perimeter to make sure that the coast is clear for a getaway back to my room. But he is already out.

My head is pounding!

I slip on my clothes, grab David’s Dodgers baseball hat, and scurry out of the room. I pause at every corner, every turn, peeking around the hall, making sure that NO one catches me doing the sorority walk of shame.

Four Advil and one hydrating mask later I am dressed and showered, sitting in a breakfast meeting with an entire group of people who will not speak or look at me. Scandal. I am scandal. Where the hell is Josh?

“Congratulations, you and David have now become …

HBO’s
REAL SEX 500
, the corporate episode, ‘Fucking your Boss’s-Boss’s-Boss at the Company Retreat,’ ” Josh says, sitting in the chair next to me. “It’s a good thing that I don’t care what people say about me hanging out with you. Besides, they can’t fire me for being friends with the company Scarlet Letter, as I am protected by the velvet curtain, thus untouchable.” He looks around the room. They turn away from his gaze. One woman gives him a phony smile while squinting her eyes. “Oh, it’s bad, Emmie, but more importantly, how was he?”

I give Josh a postglow smile, and he can’t help but laugh.

“Worth it. It was so worth it. I hadn’t been kissed like that in over three-hundred-and-two days. I needed a good kiss. I felt like the girl who got to kiss the quarterback at the prom. Only I never went to the prom, so kisses like that are that much better. We’re both consenting adults.” I whisper with resentment at this sudden alienation. “Don’t these people have lives? Perhaps they should worry about their problems or better yet, get laid.”

Josh cocks his head at me. “That behavior is going to make no friends. Shame. Shame. Play nice with the other boys and girls.” He raises an orange juice glass at some marketing woman giving me the eye. She looks away.

“David missed his early-morning meeting, only adding more speculation that he was where you left him, naked and hungover in bed, cuddling a Pepto Bismol bottle.” Josh finds amusement in his cleverness.

I punch him. “It’s not funny. This is my life. My professional future. And he could be my potential power boyfriend.”

“Emmie, Kitten, don’t be so hetero. Every guy that goes down on you isn’t meant to meet you at the end of the aisle. Besides, David just jumped on the corporate jet back to L.A., justifying it with problems on the set surrounding Meg Ryan. Huh, interesting sign for a soul mate. Wonder how he’ll handle the screaming children?”

Postretreat: Back in the safety and autonomy of my apartment in Brentwood. The alarm clock goes off and I look over at Sam, who is lying on his back with his head on the pillow next to me. I can’t help but laugh. I scratch his tummy, then bury myself under the covers in hopes I can hide and that the people at work will soon forget my bad judgment.

I can’t get David out of my head. I hate the postsex days. I feel a little sad that the warmth washing over my whole body is now missing, replaced with anxiety. Will he call? Will he not call? What do I do if he does call? I can’t possibly date my boss’s boss’s boss. It did, however, have some exciting quality to it. I close my eyes, take a deep breath, and the phone rings.

It’s Grace and Reilly. They are three-way-calling me for a Monday-morning report on the weekend.

Shit, don’t you hate that? When you want it so badly to be someone else and it is one of your loving friends calling to say hello, and you can’t help but be disappointed, even annoyed?

“You didn’t walk away, did you?” Grace shoots out before hello or good morning.

“No, and now I can’t shake the endorphin shooters that are attacking my body following our enchanting sexual encounter,” I say to the girls on the phone.

“It’s a little early in the morning for your talk of moisture and endorphins,” Reilly laughs.

Sam’s head is resting on my arm. I pet his perfect bearlike muzzle. “I can’t get him out of my head. I want to call.”

“No calling!” Grace declares. “Try the battery-operated device in your top drawer and let it go. You need to keep it out of the office. There are no ifs, ands, or buts about it.”

“I have to get in the shower and head to work. I’ll call you guys later.”

“NO CALLING,” they both say in unison.

We all hang up.

I round the Mustang into the parking garage and pass David’s black Mercedes S500. I sneak up the stairs to my office on the third floor, round the corner past the lobby, and shoot straight into my office, where I promptly shut the door.

“Nicely done.” Josh opens my door, pops his head in my office.

“Piss off.” I ease my jacket off.

“Good morning to you,” he says, leaving.

I sit down at my desk, turn on my computer, open my email, and see …

TO: Emily Sanders
FR: David Jenkins

Dear Emily,

I know it’s not protocol, but then neither was the retreat. I would like to see you, in a personal way, not in the office. Why, you ask? Because I think that you are funny and sexy in a quirky way. I like your style. And you’re a great kisser. How about dinner? Or golf? David

I respond …

Dear David,

I am calling Human Resources as I will not be sexually harassed by my boss’s-boss’s-boss. Joking.

I prefer to be sexy and funny vs. sexy in a quirky way. What exactly does that mean?

I am free for dinner tonight. But I cannot guarantee any kissing. And the whole sex thing was a fluke. Emily

Wow! My body is on fire. And my witty banter is coming back!

OUR INTERTWINED HANDS linger across the table. Candlelight on the patio floods the darkness at The Ivy, a trendy L.A. eatery formed out of an old red-brick house tucked on Robertson Boulevard. The patio is laden with green ivy, heat lamps, white wooden tables, flowery pillows,
and tablecloths. The food is comfort with a hint of hip and expensive. We sit nestled in the corner, out of sight, so I slip my feet into his chair. He gently strokes my ankles.

“You have the best smile,” David low-growls. “It’s honest, real. Your eyes sort of scrunch up and your dimples crease in when you laugh. You just have an incredible smile.” Melting. I am melting. “See, there it goes again.” He leans over the table and kisses the tops of my hands.

What is it about men when they give us compliments? There is something in me that goes to pieces. When David told me that my smile was incredible, all of sudden I thought that my smile must be one of the best things about me, and I never really thought that my smile was all that great. I did have braces, but I don’t have one of those perfect, oversized, Miss Texas smiles, like singers. All singers must see the same orthodontist. Think about it. Whitney Houston and Madonna have the same teeth. My smile is more Meg Ryan with a hint of Patricia Arquette. Ducky with eyeteeth. It’s cute, but by no means perfect. Now, at this moment, I wouldn’t trade it for all of the white caps in the world.

Postdinner: He walked me to the door and met Sam. Sam just stood in the doorway unsure of what to do. Sam is usually a pretty good indicator of people. He either completely snubs strangers he doesn’t like or if he likes you, you get the howl followed by rubbing between your legs in a silent plea for head scratches. Sam just stood there looking at him and then sat down in the doorway as if saying, The jury is still out.

I watch my dog and make a decision.

I want to let David in. I sooooo want to kiss him all night, have him on the floor, couch, bed, and kitchen table. But I am a woman trying to prove that I am not an easy corporate retreat hooker, that I am strong, with good moral fiber, that I will make a great vice president of PR, a good power girlfriend … not a one-nighter.

But then, here he was, and what if he never came back? What if he drives away in his Mercedes and crashes on the Pacific Coast Highway and I never get one last chance to lie in his arms? Death versus the ability to remain strong and hold onto my morality.

I am not sure who decided a woman’s sexuality is the determining factor of our morality, but that MAN should be shot. Because I am a completely moral woman, but I like sex. Yet I will deny myself in order to prove that I am a nice girl. UGGH!

As much as I wanted it, I knew he had to go.

I sent him home, and of course my trickery theory of playing the coy and nonhorny, hard-to-get-girl worked. He called from his car on his way home … and again in the morning, just to wish me a good day.

It left me wondering, why is it that no sex equals calls? To me that is completely backward and irrational. If we give ourselves completely and get naked, revealing all possible body flaws, and release our pheromone of love, what happens? They don’t call. If we send them packing without a hint of wanting, they in turn pay attention to us? So to understand the male perspective I must reevaluate all logical female
thinking and reverse it. Completely turn the rational perspective inside out. Then possibly I might be in sync with men.

Week three … Lying on David’s office floor after hours of listening to Madonna’s
Bedtime Stories
, one of the all-time best makeout CDs.

“I may need some help with the press,” David whispers between kisses.

“Of course. Anything I can do.” I love that he needs me.

“But I don’t want you to tell anybody. No one. Not Josh or Avery. This is something that I need to do under the radar of our corporate communications policy. Things are getting a little rough for me, as I am new, and now there’s the merger, and well, frankly, I am not getting the recognition that I need to keep growing both here and in the industry. As you and I both know, perception and spin are everything.” He adds, “I figure if I can’t trust my girlfriend, who can I trust?”

I say to Dr. D., “Reason number four …”

Reason #4:
If helping your boyfriend makes you lie to your friends, boss, and mentor, don’t help him
.

“You’re spot on,” Dr. D. replies. “He used the girlfriend word in the same sentence that he asked you to be deceptive to your boss. Subtle manipulation of your emotion to evoke action.”

“I know. He said girlfriend, and it was all I heard. I was a girlfriend. And he needed me. It was nice to be needed.”

Dr. D. looks me in the eye over the rim of his glasses.

“Why is it that that you equate needing you to liking you?”

I look down, pondering Dr. D.’s question. “Because if he needs me, he can’t leave me. I know I should let this misconception go, yet I can’t explain the sort of security I feel when I’m needed. It’s an issue.”

He writes as I continue the recollection of David.

Now for the downside to helping David. Arriving at work every day is like walking the gangplank from a ship full of serial ax murderers only to fall off into a pool of hungry Great Whites.

“No one has forgotten your behavior at the retreat in Asheville,” Josh says as we enter an empty conference room. People follow us in and sit as far away from me as possible. “Annnnddddd, they know you’re still doing the pres.”

“No they don’t!”

“Yes, they do. What’s the difference between a gossipy gay guy and a gossipy hetero woman in the entertainment business?” Josh asks.

I cock my head to the side …

“The gay guy will stab you directly in the chest while buying you lunch at Chai and the woman will wait to shove it into your spine as
you
get stuck with the check.”

“We had the talk,” I smile. “He’s officially my boyfriend.”

“Then how come everyone thinks you’re a corporate hooker?” Josh asks. “And why are the two of you still trying to hide it?”

“David thinks it is better for us if we keep it private. He needs me to help him and …” I stop, as I promised not to tell.

He interrupts, “This way only you look bad, Kitten. Think about it.”

Reason #5:
If you have to hide your relationship, it isn’t worth hiding
.

In reality, David and I have been working on a press strategy to up his profile. I am on the phone twice a day with my best contact, a reporter in New York at the
Hollywood Reporter
, giving him the inside scoop on some upcoming projects that David is trying to get off the ground, telling him about the revolutionary work he is doing behind the scenes. I know that if I can get my favorite reporter to do this story, things will change for David. He knows it, too. So we must keep our love a secret or it will look like I am trying to help him for purely unprofessional reasons and that I am not unbiased.