The Last Dreamer (2 page)

Suddenly a passing image caught her attention. Reversing course, she flipped back a few stations until she found it again.

Pulling herself up, she studied the familiar high school corridor on the screen. The image was dull and filmy, with none of the bright colors that characterized recent shows about teens. Some guitar chords sounded as the camera slowly zoomed in on a boy and a girl standing next to a wall of lockers, the girl with an arm folded around a binder, the boy leaning toward her, a backpack slung over one shoulder. Somewhere in her head, Iliana knew who they were, just like she knew the words to the wistful pop tune starting up very softly in the background.
It’s a world of dreaming . . . it’s a life of Guitar Dreams.

“I’ve been hoping for the lead in the senior play all my life,” the girl said tearfully. “What if Mrs. Brown doesn’t think I’m good enough? What will I do then?”

“Hey, we thought our band was a total dream,” the boy said. “And now we play concerts every weekend. You just gotta put yourself out there, you know? You just gotta start dreamin’ to the max!”

He held out one hand, and she took it. Then he pulled her in close and lifted her chin with the knuckle of his other hand, smiling shyly, as if he knew that an all-out smile would be too beautiful for her to bear. Then he kissed her, once softly, and then again, as he moved his hands to her waist and she slid her free arm around his neck.

Eyes on the screen, Iliana lowered herself onto the edge of the coffee table, sending the remote tumbling to the floor.
Jeff Downs,
she thought.
Where the hell are you now?

Chapter 2

Jeff Downs’s face was once everywhere Iliana looked—on the poster that hung on her bedroom wall, on magazine covers at the candy store in town, on the cardboard that was folded around cassette tapes she would buy at the mall with her babysitting money. Jeff Downs, star of the TV show
Guitar Dreams
, with his wavy brown hair that cradled the back of his neck, with his deep-brown eyes and square chin, with the dimple that materialized on his cheek when he smiled and was so adorable, you almost had to cry when you saw it. His smile was a tight-lipped smile, an embarrassed smile, a combination smile-sigh. A smile that said he would gladly walk away from all the attention, if only he could be alone with the girl of his dreams, sharing a slice of pizza perhaps, or walking on the beach.

She had seen him for the first time on TV when she was Dara’s age. He was in a jeans commercial, playing the part of a teenage boy who brings his friend home to play basketball, only to discover that his friend and younger sister have huge crushes on one another. The friend and sister start to flirt in the kitchen, while Jeff tries to get his pal to take an interest in a can of soda, a bag of chips, or the basketball stats in the newspaper, the way he usually does. But today, the friend asks the sister to go for a walk, and the two of them leave the house. The camera then switches to Jeff shooting baskets alone on the driveway and missing every shot, while an announcer declares, “There’s no going back. Reese Jeans.”

Iliana rushed home every day after school that spring, doing her homework while keeping an eye on the TV, waiting for the Reese Jeans commercial. She was certain that Jeff was just like the character he played in the commercial—a loner, an outsider. She was sure he would understand her better than anyone else, since she was an outsider, too.

The transition to sixth grade that year had been hard for her. The middle school drew from two elementary schools, hers and another one on the wealthier side of town—and her best friend from elementary school had moved to the fancier area over the summer. Iliana was shy to begin with, she didn’t make friends easily, and it was painful to watch Lizzie embrace a whole new group of girls that Iliana had nothing in common with. They talked about fancy designer clothes they intended to buy and argued about whether the skiing was better in Snowbasin or Copper Mountain, places Iliana had never heard of. When one of them showed off her new tennis bracelet at lunch, Iliana was baffled. It looked like a fancy bracelet to her—what did it have to do with tennis? Still, with nowhere else to sit, she went to the same lunch table as Lizzie and her new friends every day, pretending that she belonged. And as she sat there, she daydreamed about Jeff Downs. She imagined what he would do if he were to visit her school during lunch one day. She was sure he would find the girls at the table mean and shallow. He would turn away as they gushed over a new blouse or bracelet. He’d look at her as she sat quietly at the end of the table, and he’d tell them, “I want to know what
Iliana’s
thinking.”

That July, Iliana read in
Teen
magazine that the “Reese Jeans guy” had joined the cast of a new TV series about four high school buddies who form a band called the Dreamers. Knowing that the show would launch in September made it easier for her to accept the end of summer and the prospect of a new school year, the likelihood of finding no welcoming faces anywhere in the lunchroom, and having to sit again, ignored, with Lizzie and her rich friends. In August, she checked the shelves at the candy store daily, and was the first to pull a copy of the new issue of
Teen
—with a full-color photo section all about the new show—from the rope-bound stack. The photos were mainly of the show’s biggest star, Terry Brice, whose California tan and white-blond hair had made him a regular on sitcoms and commercials. But it was the one close-up of Jeff Downs that held her attention. She loved that he was looking down at his guitar, and not at the camera. Was there any better confirmation that he was just what she had imagined—modest, deep, and a little brooding? She was convinced that he allowed himself to get close to only a few people.

People like her.

The next morning, after making sure that Matt and Dara were getting dressed, Iliana slipped downstairs and turned on her computer. Sure, it was just a stupid TV show, and an old one at that, but she kept hearing Jeff’s advice to the girl over and over in her head—
You just gotta put yourself out there, you know?—
the same way she used to hear him as she went through the motions at middle school each day. Opening her email, she read her draft to Stuart, made a few revisions, added a concluding sentence expressing the hope that they’d talk soon, and pressed “Send.” There was no point in hesitating; it was time to put herself out there.

But no sooner had she dropped the kids off at school—double-checking in the mirror that Matt had his violin—and parked near the Scarsdale Café for her date with Jodi than she received a sobering and unwanted response:

Wish I could say your idea would fly, but that Kate Spade girl is hardly worth a feature. I remember you like profiles about little people with big dreams, but they’re pretty old school these days. We need stories with big names that can increase our social-media presence. Now if you get your hands on something like that, write it up and send it over, I’ll give it a look. And btw, thanks for the congrats!

Sitting in the turned-off car, Iliana stared at her phone until her cold, ungloved fingers started to ache. Stuart had barely taken enough time to read her idea before flatly rejecting it. And though his note had a friendly tone, his characterization of her idea as “old school” stung. As for the end of the note—how could she get her hands on a story about someone famous when she was out here in the suburbs, her days filled with chauffeuring kids, dropping off clothes, and fetching preshave? He hadn’t even raised the possibility of an assignment—just gave a vague offer to give her work “a look.” She had been on the staff of
Business Times
for eight years, she had helped train him when he joined the magazine five years after she did, and he couldn’t even say that he’d love her to write for him? He wasn’t interested. To him she was a has-been.

She sighed. She had been down this road before, when her ideas were dismissed or rejected by
Redbook
,
Parents
,
and all the others. And this was even harder to take, since Stuart was someone she knew. She could foresee how the next few days would go. She would study Stuart’s email for an hour or two, trying to glean something positive from his response or hoping he’d email again to say he’d reconsidered. And then, when neither happened, she’d crash. She’d be miserable and angry for days, short with the kids and Marc, cool to anyone who crossed her path. She’d remind herself constantly that Stuart found her useless. And then she’d slowly wipe herself up off the floor.

This was not how she had expected her career to go. She had joined
Business Times
a year after college, moving there from an entry-level public relations job because she wanted to be in publishing. She thought that after a couple of years, when she had some professional writing experience under her belt, she could move to one of the big women’s magazines. And a few years after that, when she had made a name for herself in the publishing industry, she could start on her book. Her idea was to find four people who had come to New York City and prevailed despite obstacles—a lack of money or education, extreme youth, or disapproving parents or families. She wanted her book to showcase the vast possibilities of New York, and to analyze the kind of determination that could propel people to extraordinary and unlikely success.

But somehow she never made it out of
Business Times
. It was a comfortable place for her, and she was content. She received lots of praise for sniffing out news or scooping the competition, as well as regular pay raises. The time she stayed behind at a press conference about West Side development and got a direct quote from Donald Trump, she earned a bouquet of red roses from the publisher and a bonus. Five years into the job, she got her promotion, which brought with it more money and prestige. She figured she had plenty of time to move to the next career stage.

Then along came Marc, and everything changed. She met him on the way home from a weekend getaway in the Poconos, and he soon became her top priority. Being in love consumed much of the time and attention she once poured into her job—as did planning a wedding, starting a household, moving to the suburbs, and expecting a baby. She returned briefly to
Business Times
after her maternity leave, but found that she missed Matthew terribly. She hated turning him over to a nanny every morning and not seeing him all day. She talked about it with Marc, who pointed out that between the cost of the nanny and her train commute to the city, they were spending a lot of money for a job she was starting to resent. So she left
Business Times
, taking a gamble that when she was ready to resume her writing career, the publishing industry would welcome her back.

She opened the door and stepped out, not even bothering to close her coat. The frigid air stung her cheeks and tore through her turtleneck sweater. She stumbled into the coffee shop and stood near the entrance. She barely remembered why she was there, until she noticed Jodi waving.

“Hi, honey!
Iliana!
” Jodi called, which made everyone in the place look up. “What’s wrong with you? You didn’t even see me!”

Iliana tried to smile normally as she slid onto the opposite green vinyl bench. “Sorry,” she said. “Just tired, I guess.”

A waitress came over with a coffeepot, and Iliana lifted an empty mug. “No, it’s easier when it’s on the table,” the woman barked. Iliana obediently put the mug down.

They ordered breakfast, and Jodi tucked the menus into their holder. “Tired, hey, I hear ya,” she said, pouring a stream of sugar from the glass dispenser into her coffee cup. “And when you’re tired, everyone annoys you more, am I right? I caught Ben loading the dishwasher last night, and he wasn’t even rinsing first. Shit, why are husbands so friggin’ lazy all the time?” Her golden-brown, artfully wavy hair cascaded forward, and she tossed it back with a forefinger.

“Actually, you’re not supposed to rinse them,” Iliana said. “Dishwashers today have sensors, and they need the food particles to read how dirty the load is, and—” She sighed. She once dreamed of being the next great female essayist of her time, and here she was, spouting boring facts she had learned writing about a local appliance store.

They were quiet for a moment. “Why’d you stop?” Jodi finally said, her lips turned down in a playful pout. “I love when you tell me that stuff. You’re so good at explaining, that’s why you’re a writer. Any new assignments coming up?”

“Not right now,” Iliana said, reaching for a napkin. She didn’t want to tell Jodi about
Business Times
. The rejection was too fresh, and the fact that it came from someone she once worked with was too humiliating to admit, even to her closest friend.

The waitress returned with their food, and Jodi cut hungrily into her eggs. “You’re so lucky that you have the kind of career you can do from home,” she continued, biting off a piece of bacon. “Not me. A lawyer who hasn’t practiced in ten years? Ha! Like I have a prayer of ever being hired again.”

Iliana looked up from her toast. “You don’t mean that, do you? It’s not true that
no one
would hire you, is it?”

“Yeah, it’s true. Why pretend? The only thing I’m good for these days is making sure Ben has clean shirts, clean boxers, and a full stomach, so he can keep going to work and bringing home the bacon. Or at least bringing home the money so I can eat the bacon.” She took another bite.

“And that doesn’t bother you?”

“I like bacon.”

“No, seriously.”

She shrugged. “What am I gonna do? It is what it is.”

“But you were a lawyer.”

“I still
am
a lawyer, thank you very much. And I still get to practice once in a while, although mainly because I’m too wimpy to say no.”

Iliana smiled. “What?” she said. “What did you agree to this time?”

“I couldn’t help it!” Jodi rolled her eyes. “I ran into Chelsea Gold at the track last week—that will teach me to exercise in winter, right? You know her, she owns that store Chelsea’s Home Details a few doors down from here?”

Iliana nodded. She had covered the opening two years ago for the local paper. It was an attractive but overpriced decorating store, with small pieces of weathered, antique furniture and knickknacks.

“Well, we stopped to talk and she’s adding a location in White Plains and said she was nervous about some of the details in the lease, and when I told her I used to review leases, she asked if I’d take a look at it. ‘Just a once-over to spot any red flags,’ she said. She told me she was sinking all her money into the business, so she couldn’t pay me, but if I found something in the store, she’d give it to me as a thank-you.”