Just Like Me, Only Better (12 page)

“This is the mother? How’d she lose all the weight?” I asked.

Stefano popped open his soda. “Stomach staple and lipo. Paid for by her salary as Haley’s
manager
.”

“Isn’t Jay Haley’s manager?”

“He is now. They met when Haley was on
Riley Poole
. Jay was some kind of production slave, and he got tight with Haley, which is kind of weird when you think that she was, like, fifteen and he was, like, twenty-five.”

“Wait. So Haley and Jay were . . .”

“
Officially
, he saw her artistic potential and wanted to help her shine. Unofficially? His career was going nowhere and he saw financial potential. He’s the one who convinced her to move over to the Betwixt Channel, though, so you’ve got to give him some credit.”

“But was there ever a romance?”

“Romance! Oh, you are so quaint. She never said anything about it to me, and believe me, I’ve fished. What I
do
know is that Haley hasn’t talked to either of her parents since she turned eighteen, and Jay hasn’t exactly gone out of his way to mend the family rift.”

“But what about the boyfriend?” I asked. “Brady Ellis.”

Stefano licked his lips. “A tasty, tasty morsel. I keep begging Jay to let me do his hair, but I think he’s afraid that I might say something inappropriate. Which I wouldn’t, BTW.”

“What does Jay have to do with Brady’s hair?”

“Jay manages Brady, too. He’s got a handful of young clients. Not like Haley—it’s not a round-the-clock hand-holding dealie—but he manages the publicists, gives input on scripts, that sort of thing.”

“Is Haley still going out with Brady?” If so, maybe I’d get to meet him.

“Sadly, no. Maybe they went their separate ways. Or maybe he finally figured out that she’s
fucking insane
.”

“What do you mean?”

Stefano tapped on his soda can. “She won’t leave the house. She cries for no reason. She’s on about fifteen different pills—all of them prescription, but still. She’s got the emotional maturity of a two-year-old. Shall I go on?”

“Yes, please!”

He threw his head back and laughed. “Oh, I like you, Veronica Zapp!”

“Did they tell you that was my last name?”

“Isn’t it?”

I shook my head. “Czaplicki.” He looked baffled, of course.

“Do you want me to spell it?”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

“My maiden name was Foote.” I’d always figured that was almost, but not quite, worse.

“Veronica Foote.” He spoke the name slowly, trying it out. He took a long, long drink of his Dr Pepper and placed the can on a coaster. “You might want to just stick to Veronica. One word—like Madonna.”

 

 

I’d say I didn’t recognize the woman staring back from the mirror once Stefano had finally finished my hair, but that wasn’t true. I recognized Haley Rush—at least, the air-brushed Haley who graced magazine covers. The blond woman in the mirror looked a hell of a lot better than the Haley Rush I’d seen skulking around in her bathrobe.

“And just a few finishing touches,” Stefano said, dabbing my face with powders and shimmers and glosses. “You’ll knock ’em dead at—Where are you going after this?”

“The elementary school. Oh, God. What time is it? I’d better get going.” Rodrigo was back, waiting for me on the couch.

“Okay, then, lovey,” Stefano said. “I’ll see you back here on Friday.”

“Friday?”

“For your extensions.”

Oh, God.

 

 

The freeway was jammed. There was no way I’d make it in time to get the kids at school. Maybe Nina could drop off the Mott kids and take Ben back to her house till I got there.

I tried her home number: no answer. I tried her cell: same. I pulled up Deborah Mott’s contact info but couldn’t make myself press the button.

“I’m late,” I announced into the air. That’s how it felt, anyway; Rodrigo and I had spent almost an hour in the car together without exchanging a single word.

I pictured Ben standing on the front lawn, alone except for Shaun and Shavonne. I couldn’t let that happen. I scrolled through the contact list on my cell phone. Oh, what the hell.

“Y’lo!”

“Hi, Hank, it’s me.”

“Roni! Hey. What’s up?”

“I’m on my way back from L.A., and I’m stuck in traffic. There’s no way I can make it to the school in time.”

“You want me to get Ben?”

That was easy. My entire body relaxed with relief just as brake lights flashed ahead of us. Rodrigo jerked the Prius to a halt. My seatbelt jerked me back.

I tried to keep my voice steady. “If you could.”

“Sure, no problem,” he said. “You need me to get the Mott kids, too?”

“Please,” I said. “And when you drop them? If you can make sure Deborah’s there. A couple of times last week she was out when we got home.”

“How about I’ll just hang at your place until you get home, so Big Ben won’t have to go from one house to the other. He does that enough already.”

“True.” I felt a stab in my chest that I took for guilt until I remembered: Hank broke our family apart, not me.

“Did you get a Bluetooth?” Hank asked me.

“Huh?”

“A handless phone set. Because you’re in your car, aren’t you?” In California, it was illegal to talk on a cell phone while driving.

“I am,” I said, shooting a glance at Rodrigo. “So I’d better go. Thanks for getting the kids.”

 

 

When I got home, I fully expected to find Hank and Ben sprawled on the sofa, chomping potato chips in front of the TV. I was so grateful for Hank’s help that I wouldn’t have even minded.

Instead, Ben sat at the table, hunched over a worksheet, nibbling from a bowl of cut apples, while Hank fiddled with my computer.

“Mommy—your hair!”

I touched my head. “Oh. That.”

Hank turned, and his eyes just about flew out of his head. “Oh, my God!”

“I, um, just thought I’d try out a new look.”

“You look gorgeous,” Hank said.

Heat ran through my face and down my neck. “I’m not sure it really suits me.”

“Are you kidding? You’re a knockout!”

Hank liked blondes: look at Darcy. If only I’d bleached my hair years ago, maybe I’d still have a family.

“Thanks for getting the kids.” I was eager to change the subject.

“Anytime,” he said. “I’m lucky to have such a flexible work schedule.”

Officially, Hank helped Darcy with her real estate business—sprucing up homes in anticipation of a sale, lining up inspectors and appraisers, stuffing mailboxes with notepads and brochures. Unofficially, I suspected he spent most of his time doing leg crunches in front of ESPN.

He kept looking at me. “I can’t get over you as a blonde.”

“It’s just hair,” I snapped, heading for the bathroom.

When I came out, he was hugging Ben good-bye.

“Your Internet’s working,” he told me over Ben’s shoulder.

“Really?”

“Your modem just needed to be reset. Not a big deal.”

“Thanks.”

“You can always call me,” he said. “If something breaks or you need any kind of help or . . . whatever.”

I nodded. “Thanks,” I said again.

“See you Wednesday, Big Ben.” Hank gave him a final squeeze. “We’ll go get those rockets for the Cub Scout launch.”

“Let’s do it now!” Ben pleaded.

“It’s not my—” Hank stopped himself before he could say “day.”

He cleared his throat. “I’m really busy this afternoon. I have to do some . . . things. But Wednesday. Right after school.” He held up a fist, and he and Ben tapped knuckles.

I turned the other way. This was their moment, not mine.

 

 

 

W
hen we met, I was twenty-one and Hank was thirty-five, and if that sounds like a ridiculous age gap, that’s because it was. I was never one of those girls perpetually in search of a father figure. I have a perfectly nice father married to a perfectly nice mother. They still live in the house where I grew up, in a small town outside of Sacramento. And, yes, they were perfectly appalled when their college daughter announced that she was dating a man halfway between her age and theirs.

Like so many great romances, Hank’s and mine began in a dark, crowded bar, late one Saturday night when I was feeling restless. In the space of the last month, I had begun my senior year at Cal State Fullerton and ended, once and for all (Really! I meant it this time!) a two-and-a-half year relationship with Shane, the boy-man I had been dating since freshman year. Shane was now a junior, even though he hadn’t taken any time off. He had merely changed his major three times, from education to business to botany. Botany!

Shane was still living at home with his parents and his two teenaged sisters. His bedroom sported about thirty childhood sports trophies, an extensive video game setup, and a tropical fish tank, which he broke one day while playing basketball in the house. The shattered fish tank, for me, was the final straw. I got to his house maybe an hour after it happened, and he told me the whole story like it was so, so funny: “Kyle stopped by and he was like, ‘Dude, let’s go outside and shoot some hoops.’ And I was all, ‘Dude, can’t you see I’m comfortable?’ And he was all, ‘Sure, fine, whatever—
catch
!’

“And he throws the ball at me, and I pass it back, but my aim was kind of off and—shit! I hit the tank and Kyle was like, ‘Slam DUNK!’ It was frickin’
hilarious . . .
”

He left the fish to die on the floor.

I was so upset I could barely breathe.

“They’re just fish,” he said, stepping around the puddle.

“I will never have children with you,” I told him.

So there I was, a few weeks later, at the Verona Club, standing at a high, sticky table with a couple of girlfriends who had decided that I needed to “get lucky.”

I did hope to meet someone, it’s true. For years, I’d had my life mapped out: marriage at twenty-four, children at twenty-six and twenty-eight. I’d take a few years off from teaching when the kids were born, maybe go back part-time when they started school. The breakup with Shane threatened to mess it all up, but if I met someone quickly, I could get my life back on track.

But Susy, Ellen, and I were way too young for this place. We’d picked it because it was one of the few Fullerton bars where we wouldn’t risk running into Shane or one of his buddies.

I walked over to the bar because it gave me something to do—and also because it was my turn to buy a round. I squeezed between sweaty, cologne-covered bodies and finally managed to catch the bartender’s eye and order one Corona Light, one cosmopolitan, and a margarita (that was for me—no salt, please).

Once the drinks came, I tucked the beer bottle into my elbow and grasped a glass with each hand.

The man sitting on the stool next to me—blond, spiky hair, youngish looking (at least for the Verona Club), in a short-sleeved, button-down pale blue shirt—eyed my load and smiled. “Need a hand with those?”

He had been talking to another guy. They were drinking beer.

“Thanks, I’m fine,” I said—just as someone bumped me from behind.

The glasses stayed in my hands. Their contents did not.

“I am so sorry!” I gasped.

Mouth hanging open, he stared at his drenched shirt. And then he looked at me. And laughed. “Wow. You got me good.”

Next to him, his friend howled.

“I am so sorry,” I said again. “Someone bumped into me.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Still chuckling, he reached for a pile of napkins and began dabbing his shirt.

“I’ll pay the dry cleaning bill,” I offered.

He waved the offer away. “It can go through the wash. A little Shout, and it’ll be fine.”

It made a good story: When did you know Hank was The One? When I found out he knew how to do laundry.

It wasn’t that simple, of course. And the laundry thing didn’t strike me until later. Mostly, I was struck by his maturity, his easygoing manner, his slime-free friendliness.

“Hank,” he said, holding out his hand.

“Veronica.”

“I always liked her better than Betty.” His blue eyes crinkled.

Was he flirting or just being nice? I couldn’t tell.

When his friend got up—to use the bathroom, he said, though he never came back—I took his stool. The replacement drinks were on the house. Hank had gone to high school with the bartender.

Susy and Ellen swooped in for their drinks before leaving us alone. Ellen winked at me. Susy pinched my elbow.

Hank had lived in Fullerton his whole life, he told me, save for a few “ski bum years” after college. (He’d never graduated, but he didn’t tell me that then.) He had his own business, selling and installing high-end window blinds. “I tried some office jobs, but I couldn’t stand being stuck behind a desk all day.” He owned his own house: “Nothing big, just two bedrooms, one and a half baths. But it’s got a good-sized backyard, and I like to grill.”

In short: Hank was an adult. And it was dark in there, and the clientele was on the old side. I had him pegged at twenty-eight. To his credit, he had no idea just how young I was. When I told him I was completing my teacher training, he assumed I was getting some kind of postgraduate certification.

“Twenty-five,” he guessed several nights later as we nibbled on tortilla chips at a Mexican restaurant. He’d done everything properly: taken my number, called me the next day, asked me out to dinner.

“Nope.” I took a long sip of my strawberry margarita.

“Twenty . . . four?”

“Nope.”

“Older or younger?”

I raised my eyebrows.

“Oh, God.” He rested his chin on his hand and studied me. “Well, you have to be at least twenty-one because they let you into the Verona Club.”