The Misfortune Cookie

“Yes,” I said, seduced all over again by those memories. “Of course.”

In my head, I ran his lines.

Seeing you today made me realize I would do anything to get you back. To be with you again. To make it all up to you.

That was good. He could start there and then segue into how sorry he was, how he’d rather die than ever hurt me like that again.

“I’m meeting my old partner first thing in the morning,” said Lopez. “The guy who’s in department’s movie unit now.”

“What?”

“And reading this thing, I’ve got a bunch of questions. Because I know he’s going to have a bunch of questions.”

“What?” I said sharply.

“I’m talking about Ted’s script,” he clarified. “ABC.”

“What?”

“Um . . .”

There was a pause.

So I filled it. “You’re calling me about Ted’s script?” I said in outraged disbelief.

“Yes. That’s right.” Lopez sounded relieved, as if we were getting on track now. “And the thing is—”

“Why are you calling me about this?” I demanded shrilly.

“Because I can’t get a hold of Ted. Every time I call him, I get his voicemail. I just tried him again.”

I glanced across the floor, to where Ted was still pacing and talking with his sister, trying to placate her and convince her of . . . whatever.

Lopez continued, “And I really need to get some answers about this script before my meeting tomorrow morning.”

“What?”

“There are a couple scenes here that seem to be set in a city location, but the script doesn’t specify—”

“What?”

“Um . . .”

There was a pause.

I was beside myself. After weeks of not calling me—not after hours of steamy sex, not after I left a message asking him to call me, not even after he’d arrested me . . . This was why he finally picked up a goddamn phone and dialed my number?

To talk about Ted’s script?

“Are you okay?” Lopez asked hesitantly. “You sound a little . . .” He cleared his throat. “Are you okay?”

I wanted to kill him. I wished he were here right now so I could commit a heinous crime of passion—for which any sane jury in the land would surely acquit me!

“I can’t believe you!” I raged.

“What?”

“What did I ever see in you?”

“Huh?”

“You’re calling me about Ted’s script?”

“Well . . . yeah.”

“What’s the matter with you?” I demanded. “What could you possibly be thinking?”

“There’s nothing the matt . . . I’m thinking the script . . . I mean, I thought . . .” He sounded absolutely lost. “Wait. Hang on. I thought you wanted me to help you. Didn’t you? Or has that changed since lunchtime?”

“Don’t use that tone with me,” I snapped.

“I’m not using a tone, I’m just trying to under . . .” He took a breath and tried again. “Do you want me not to help now? Did something happen?”

“Oh, my God,” I said wearily, sitting down on a cushioned stool, suddenly drained of energy. “I am such a fool.”

“Esther?” When I didn’t he respond, he prodded, “Esther, what’s going on? Where are you?”

“I’m trapped inside Yee’s Trading Company,” I said, feeling exhausted. “Don’t send help. You’ll never find me.”

“What?”

“You’re calling about the script. About the locations.”

“Yes.” He asked hesitantly, “Is that all right?”

“I’m an idiot,” I muttered. “I’m pathetic, and I’m an idiot.”

“Are you drunk?” he asked, sounding puzzled.

“That’s a good idea,” I said vaguely. “Maybe I should try it.”

“Huh?”

“Oh, good grief.” I sighed, shaking my head.

Lopez had said he would help with the movie, and so he was helping. That was the kind of guy he was. He did what he said he would do.

With one notable exception.

The one I couldn’t get over. The one I wanted to kill him for. The one that was turning me into a crazy person.

I sighed. “Look, you should talk to Ted about this, not me. I’m not sure what he’s got in mind for each scene.”

“I tried to talk to Ted, but—”

“He’s right here with me,” I said, feeling ready to go home and have a long hot soak in the tub, followed by an early night in bed. Alone. Again. “Ted’s talking to his sister right now. It’s a phone call I think he’d welcome any excuse to end. So I’ll tell him to get rid of her so you can talk to him. Okay?”

“Okay, good. Thanks. Because this meeting tomorrow will be a waste of time if I don’t have the answers I’ll need.”

“Call him in five minutes,” I instructed.

“Will do. And, um . . . I mean . . . This is what you want, right?” When I didn’t answer, he said, sounding as tired as I felt, “I’m trying to do what you want, Esther. But I don’t know what . . . Sometimes you . . . I can’t . . .” He sighed and said, “I’m just trying to make it right.”

Of course. He was a man.

He had come to my home, had his way with me, left, never called, arrested me, still didn’t call . . . and this was his way of trying to make it right.

Of course.

“Are you there?” he asked.

Yin, yang, Mars, Venus, men, women . . .

“Esther?”

“We’ve got a new backer,” I said, “so we’re going forward with filming. Thanks for your help. We appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome. I want to help you.”

“It’s the honorable thing to do,” I murmured.

“Well . . . if you say so.”

“And you’d like to get laid again.”

“Whoa,” he said in surprise, “that kind of came out of nowhere.”

“Am I wrong?”

“Of course you’re not wrong.” He said quietly, “But I’m not going to ask for payment in kind.”

“Not if you value your life.”