Between You and Me (13 page)

A few hours later, I rub
my exhausted face fast and hard, past even the powers of European coffee, and refocus on my checklist. Without Andy to pace in my periphery, I just have his voice haranguing me with questions, trying to figure out what I’ve forgotten before I’ve forgotten it.

Sitting on the edge of the materializing stage, I lift the inside of my sweatshirt to take a deep whiff. It’s not me. “What is that smell?” I ask.

“The wind shifted,” one of the crew says as he passes lugging a pipe. Insurance mandates that every two weeks the set be inspected, a tedious process that doubles the crew’s day, yet something Andy oversaw with visible relish. I hit refresh on my phone and then Kelsey’s. Nothing.

“What do you mean, the wind shifted?” I ask, readjusting my perch on the two folding chairs I’ve shoved together.

More guys pass carrying a cage. “All the hops factories are just next door. When the wind shifts—”

“It smells like I’m trapped in a foot,” I say.

They pause to balance it on their thighs while one of them adjusts his grip. “Just wait till we drive through Parma. It’s like a yeast infection in the ass of a pig.”

“How are none of you guys married?”

“Woo-hoo!”

Kelsey is locked into her harness on the upper catwalk. She’s answered every inquiry into her parents’ whereabouts with “Taking a breather,” delivered through a locked smile. Knowing that the riggers need a little extra cajoling on inspection days, she pretends to trip, and I cover my eyes as the guys laugh. I don’t know how she can be terrified to fly but love being flung through the air on a piece of floss. I turn away as she back-dives off the ledge and cram the end of my pen between my teeth.

“Okay, dismount,” a guy calls over the loudspeaker, and she rockets to the stage floor, as flames shoot in quick bursts from the sides. She turns to the back and gives a thumbs-up, then pivots to me. “Any word?”

I shake my head.

“Call them.”

“Me?” I ask.

She nods, her expression one of raw need.

“Okay.”

“Okay!” The smile rises. “Gotta go test the floor trap.” Hopped up on local cold medicine that would have serious street value stateside, she runs to center stage. What do I even say? Hi, your daughter wanted a breath of space to have a lozenge, not even have a lozenge, have the sore throat that required the lozenge, which somehow inspired a full-blown exodus, and can you please come back now because your child woke screaming in the night?

I dial Michelle’s number, chewing the pen until I feel the plastic crack under my incisors. It goes to voice mail. “Michelle, hi, it’s Logan. I’m just calling because—because we’re not totally sure where you are—which is probably just a communication glitch. Anyway, we’d love to hear from you—and we miss you!” I hang up before I ramble into something unhelpful, such as, actually, this equipment check has gone twice as fast without Andy yelling at everybody until they drop things.

I know what I should do next if I was worthy of my paycheck—I scroll to Andy’s number—but I can’t—I can’t. Again, I think of Delia. Kelsey flips across the stage, sweat flying off the ends of her hair.
Fuck.

The phone goes dark, and I find myself needing to quell this sickeningly familiar feeling, a paradoxical cellular conviction that only I can fix this
and
it is unfixable. I take a ragged breath before texting Finn the message I’ve had almost a month to perfect: “Trashed any good hotel rooms lately?”

But in the time it takes for the icon to cross the screen, I want to tug it back, recapture a moment ago, when I was still hoarding the prospect of reaching out, like a half-eaten caramel wrapped in my pocket. Because that’s it. Now I’ve sent the only text I can send, and I will never hear back, and he’s probably pulling off someone else’s panties with his teeth right now.

My phone vibrates. “Hello, Logan speaking.”

“I thought you’d taken your camel and hit the road.”

Stunned, I bolt upright and start flapping my hands for the entire arena to be quiet. “We did. We’re in glorious Munich.”

“Ah, Munich,” Finn says longingly. “I bet you can’t tell what’s the camel—”

“And what’s the hops? Yep. I have just been informed by everyone in my—meeting—that the wind has shifted.”

“Oh, man, sorry.”

“Yeah, who knew?”

“So, what’re you doing in Munich?”

I mentally pull up half-developed slides of half-baked funnies. “Working,” I finally say, deciding to go for not-funny-not-trying-to-be over trying-and-failing.

He gallantly waits for a punchline that’s not coming. “Look,” he says, “I know we skipped a few steps—”

“With the peeing?” I ask.

“I was thinking with the sex. But would you like to have dinner?”

“In Munich?” I balk. “No—I mean, not just with you,” I rush to clarify. “I think with anyone. Eating’s pretty much out at this point.”

He laughs. “How about not in Munich?”

“How not in Munich are we talking? I won’t be back in L.A. for another few months.” Assuming I’m not fired, in which case I’m never back in L.A.

“I’m in Paris,” he says.

“Wow. For how long?” I ask, trying not to sound like I’m booking a ticket with my feet. “I’ll be there in two weeks.”

“Shit. I’ll be in L.A. by then.”

“Oh,” I say, wanting to pour myself through the phone and all over him.

“I’m going to Italy Friday,” he throws out. “Maybe I could get a few hours off, meet up in Munich?”

I sit so far forward that I slip off the edge of the seat and catch myself with my elbow. “By Friday, I’ll be in Milan. Close?”

“I can stop off on my way to Rome.”

“I’ll be in Rome Saturday!” I scream. Get. A. Grip.

“Well, then, it’s a date, Miss Logan.” The dress is getting burned. That is officially now my good luck underwear. “We can compare hotels—”

“Smells,” I toss off.

“International smells,” he counters.

“I’ll text you my details.”

“Five-seven-ish, natural brunette, a 34C if I had to take a guess.”

“I was thinking more like Hotel de Russie, three
AM
arrival.”

“Wow, that’s some S&M outfit you work for,” he marvels.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, they’re putting you up at the best hotel, but your hours suck.”

I sigh at his observation. “Oh, Finn.” I let myself say his name. “Buy a girl a gelato, and you’ll hear all about it.
Ciao.
” Then I force myself to hang up while I’m on alluring ground. I throw the phone down and, squealing, kick the floor with my heels. Kelsey lets go of the pole she’s been dancing with. “The guy?” she calls.

I nod.

She releases her metal partner and runs to fling herself into my lap. “Logan has a boyfriend!” she shouts loud enough that the guys sweeping the stadium entrance will be able to tell their wives tonight.

“A date,” I correct her.

“Logan has a date!”

Then my phone vibrates. A text. From Michelle.

“NOT a communication glitch.”

I blink at the frescoed
ceiling, the Frette sheets of Finn’s hotel room pulled up to my armpits as the sun slips between the drapes. Finn finishes emptying the water bottle on his nightstand and rolls back to me, flopping his right arm over my waist and tucking his face into my neck.

Is
this a date?

For seventy-two hours, Kelsey threw herself into planning this encounter with the anxious fervor her parents bring to—everything. Between interviews she’s now fielding solo, she offered outfit and activity suggestions, pausing every so often to ask, only half-jokingly, if I’ll leave her if I get married. Meanwhile, I’ve been too busy to put more effort into this than simply getting Finn and me in the same location.

I finally went, at Kelsey’s impassioned insistence, with her pink Chanel dress and matching bouclé coat. Dax and Binky, hardly oblivious to the magnitude of the Wades’ absence and eager to participate in any activity that cheers Kelsey, gave up sleep to participate in my transformation.

So, two hours ago, when we met in the lobby for an early breakfast,
because that was the only mutual window we could find, I thought it was a date. We even got as far as ordering eggs. Then he tossed his menu down on the little black marble table, said, “They have room service,” took my hand, and led me to the elevator with what I would describe as a
Brokeback
level of urgency. Some of Kelsey’s Chanel may actually still be in the hall.

“
Now
let’s order food,” he says, kissing my collarbone.

He gets up and walks his insanely cute—I am turning the corner on cute; I am making peace with symmetrical and twinkly—nakedness across the room to get the menu. He brings it with a bottle of water for me and starts perusing the offerings.

“What time do you have to report?” he asks as I sit up and bring my knees to my chest.

“Eleven.” Kelsey and I have decided, in addition to refocusing interviews from the costumes to her vocal capabilities, to cancel group breakfasts to improve her sleep-to-talk ratio.

He glances at the bedside clock. “We have time. They’re very fast here. You still want the truffled eggs?” he asks, perusing the engraved menu.

Well, yes. But . . . I glance at the ravaged sheets.

“Logan?” He looks up.

“I wore a dress,” I say, fully inhabiting the vagueness that is my birthright.

“A great dress.”

“And I sort of saw myself, you know, a little more Audrey Hepburn, a little less Cicciolina. Maybe wearing it—”

“In public,” he says, slapping the menu shut. “Let’s go have a date.”

“Is that okay?”

“We’re in Rome!”

“Right?”

Inside of twenty minutes, we’re
huddled on the Spanish Steps eating panini and drinking steaming espresso. I have lost Binky’s makeup job and Dax’s ponytail, but I’ve gained a memory to savor in my rocking-chair days.

“I want to see you again,” he says as my iPhone chimes the cue for my departure. But then I remind myself: Peonies. In January. Thirty of them.

“Maybe in a few months—”

“Are you sure you can’t get out of your client thing?” he asks, and I reluctantly shake my head, knowing that Kelsey needs me close as each hour goes by, each text unanswered. “Okay, here’s the thing. I have an extra ticket tonight to Kelsey Wade.” He hedges as if he’s having a philanthropical crisis.

“Oh?” I stall, debating if this is the moment, if this is the guy I tell.

“Yeah, she’s here on tour. We’re doing the backstage thing before the show, the whole bit.”

“‘We,’ as in the perfume execs, the hooker buyers?”

“No, my direct boss, actually.” He fusses with the toggle of his down jacket. “You should come.”

“Oh, I wish I could. I bet it’ll be
awesome
.” I stand, brushing off the pink coat. “Thank you for a great date.”

He steps down one stair so we’re nose to nose and smiles, wrapping his arms around my waist. “I’ve never had anyone decline an offer for seriously cool, seriously free stuff before.”

I take his face in my hands and give him one last deep kiss. “Finn, if you haven’t figured out that I’m not just anyone yet, I’m going to have to work harder.” And with that, I turn and scamper down the steps, like Cinderella, like Kelsey in her perfume ad, like a girl being watched, longingly, from above.

“This is not a dress
,” I inform Kelsey with consternation. “This is a top.” I take in my reflection, where the gold knit grazes my upper thighs. She insisted that we bring her suitcase to the stadium so that she can “dress me like a freakin’ girl” for my pending surprise reveal, but this tunic needs—“Pants. I’m sorry, Kelsey, but in the real world, this requires pants.”

“Then throw on some fishnets!” she says with exasperation, almost upending Jen as she grips Kelsey’s drying acrylics. “Sorry, Jen.” Kelsey
frowns at her. “We’re just so damn close to a masterpiece of hotness here.”

“Okay, I’m just going to come out and say it, Kel. Fishnets—” I bow my head with solemnity. “Are not a neutral.”

“Sacrilege.” Dax gasps as Binky throws her hand to her mouth in horror. “Someone call the pope!”

“Okay, now you’re just being mean.” Kelsey pouts. “You have such long legs—you should show them. You look hot.”

I pull the fabric up from where it slouches suggestively off my shoulders. “How can I
possibly
make it seem like I just threw
this
on to run you through the bowels of the stadium and gesticulate with a million Italian dignitaries? This says, in addition to ‘slip some money in my thong,’ you know, ‘trying.’”

“This says Hollywood, bitch!” Kelsey snaps in front of her chest. Her phone lights up, and she lunges for it. We are all suddenly silent, stomachs held. Seeing it’s neither of her parents, her shoulders slump, the corner of her eye waters.

“Kel?” I say.

Her face pops up to us. “And you’re not supposed to wear it with panties.”

“No panties, no lines,” the room recites in unison, quickly moving us on.

I look questioningly to Kelsey, and she minutely shakes her head, her eyes asking me just to keep us all focused on my makeover. “I can’t believe I came down here in yoga pants.” I look up at the clock to see if there’s time to make it across the miles-long parking lot to the bus before the VIP meet-and-greet.

“Do it with K’s black jeggings,” Binky suggests. “And Dax can give you beachy waves.”

“Love,” Dax confirms, tapping the air in my direction with his hair tongs like Glinda.

“With the patent platforms!” Kelsey claps, keeping her fingers spread as they dry.

“Still too much.” My eyes zero in on Jen’s gray suede bootie heels. “What size are you?”

“Eight and a half, and with that outfit, to quote Rachel Zoe,
major.” Jen sticks her foot out to me without pausing in her buffing of Kelsey’s pinkie toe. There is a moment of silence while we collectively picture.

“Fine,” Kelsey concedes. “But I’m doing your makeup.”

Thus it is through the
Kelsified reddest of lips that I inhale a steadying breath and, with my binder clenched by team-dried red nails, turn into the VIP room of the Stadio Olimpico. I nervously make my way through the clusters of leather-clad Italian celebrities with their unperturbed air of “yeah, you’re looking at me.” Scanning the crowd, I’m unable to spot Finn but am surprised to catch sight of Kelsey’s genuine listening face. I arrive at the broad back of the blond guy engaging her, a Prada parka tied around his waist as if she’s a campfire from which he had to cool off.