“I had dinner.”
“With whom?”
The trees are moving slowly, leaves overlapping and caressing each other. I watch the patterns of sunlight dance across my floor, filtered through the window.
“With a friend.”
“How do you have friends? You’ve been there a month.”
“I’ve made friends.” I think of Jane last night, her dark eyes, wine-red lips, easy laugh and clever jokes. The sunlight continues to dance and I wonder if she’s lying in bed, sleeping off our indulgent meal, or sitting on her porch, reading that feminist tome from her friend. Or perhaps she’s watching the leaves against the morning sky, enjoying their dance and sway and thinking of me. The thought makes me smile.
“Hello?”
“I’m sorry, what?” I realize Angelo is still talking, his deep voice agitated across the phone lines.
“I said, who the hell are these friends?”
“A professor.”
“I thought you said friends,” Angelo said, emphasizing the ’s.’
“Well, just one.”
“So you’re having dinner with one friend.”
I nod.
“It’s a woman?”
“Hmm mmm,” I yawn and stretch. Maybe that small donut shop on main street is open. Now that I know where Jane lives, I could swing by with coffee and a couple of chocolate-glazed. I grin, remembering my walk home last night, enjoyable in the warm summer evening, despite my inconvenient erection. I don’t make moves on intoxicated women, especially when I’m intoxicated myself. I run my hand over my stomach, feeling my cock twitch, and I tap my fingers lightly against my belly button.
I grin.
We’re both sober now.
“Jesus, David.”
“What?” I sit up, Angelo’s irritation bellowing through the phone.
“I said, do you even know this woman?”
“I’m getting to know her,” I say, my own frustration rising along with my voice. “Hence, the dinner.”
“You know-”
“What’s going on, man? Are you so bored in L.A. you have to play long-distance chaperone?”
“I’ve seen this before, David. I told you.”
“Told me what?”
“David,” Angelo’s voice is low now, the syllables of my name pronounced slowly and with deliberate care. I have heard him speak this way to interns, young actors, and overly aggressive PR representatives. “You have made a radical change in your circumstances. You are coming off a ten year contract. You have moved to a place where you don’t know anyone, but everyone knows you. I would recommend-”
“I would recommend you stop calling me so early,” I interrupt him, trying to sound serious, but yawning as I do.
“It’s 9 a.m. on the East Coast. I checked.”
I laugh to myself. Six months ago, I would have finished my workout and had two meetings by now. Today, I’m naked in bed, planning on buying coffee and seducing a woman over donuts.
“Angelo, I’m fine.” I hear his intake of breath and before he can interrupt, I continue. “I’m enjoying my time off. I’m enjoying the community, the feel of a small town. And,” I make sure to emphasize the point, “I am enjoying the script you sent me.”
That last part is a lie. I haven’t even looked at the script. It’s still inside its padded, manilla envelope, marked Overnight Express, and sitting on my kitchen island.
“You are?”
“I am.” I yawn again, hoping he’ll buy my lie. “I haven’t finished it yet, and I have some notes. I’ll let you know when I’m done.”
Another pause. I can feel him calculating on the other end of the call, weighing the outcome of his words, processing various directions the conversation can take.
“Ok,” he says, calmly and much to my surprise. “That’s good. Finish it and let me know what you think.”
He hangs up.
I glance down at my phone again. There’s an unread text from that same, unknown number.
Glad you walked her home.
I shake my head. Maybe it’s one of Jane’s neighbors, some local tech wizard who hacked my number. I’m mildly irritated at the thought of having to change my number again, but shrug. It’s hardly the first time.
Then again, maybe it’s someone Jane knows. A friend, perhaps? Someone who got my number off of her phone when she wasn’t looking?
Did you leave Jane a book last night?
I text back.
Three dots appear beneath my message.
No. Jessica did.
Hmm. I flip my phone over, toss back my blanket and stand up, heading to the shower.
At least we know it’s not Jessica.
16
Jane
“Where are we going, Jane?” Penelope stares at me as I rush past her on my balcony, moving swiftly towards her car. Her hand, still lifted as if to knock, remains in the air as she watches me.
“I have to pick up my car.” I open the passenger side door of her ancient Volkswagen and can’t help but smile at the retro faux-wood paneling. Penelope is many things, but a lover of new technology is not one of them.
“Ok. But where is it?” She follows me off the deck, walking around the front of her time capsule and slides into the driver’s seat. She turns to me as I get in, one hand resting on the stick shift, the other on the wheel, both of which are hand-painted with puff paint in various shades of neon. A pair of fuzzy die hang from the rearview mirror.
“Before I tell you, I need to know you’ll be cool.” I stare at her, making uncomfortably direct eye contact. Trying to at least. I realize too late I’ve left my glasses in the house, and things are a little blurry up close.
“Jesus, are you ok? What’s going on?” Penelope leans forward. “What did you do, Jane?”
“I did-I did-” I stutter, take a deep breath, and continue, “I showed poor judgement last night.”
“Shit, do you need, like, a lawyer? Should we call Kate?”
“Why would we call Kate?”
“Well,” Penelope shrugged, “I don’t know. Whenever I have a panic attack about taxes or math, I just think of calling her. Lawyers are in the category of taxes and math.”
“No, but,” I pause, looking at her. “How often do you have panic attacks about taxes and math?”
Penelope rolls her eyes, “I’m a self-employed artist. How often do you think?” She shakes her head, “But back on track. What’s going on?
