Over Her Dead Body(25)
I dipped into my room, tossed the ring in a drawer, and threw on my sneakers. My gym bag was on my closet floor. I didn’t even look to see what was in it, just picked it up and slung it over my shoulder. I would work off my pain as I always did—in the weight room. I plucked my keys off the hook, sucked in my shame, then opened the front door.
“Hey,” I said, stepping out onto our porch, where Ashley was standing with a tall white guy with a Ken doll–perfect face. “I’m the roommate.” I was gripping my keys in one hand and my gym bag in the other so I didn’t have a free hand to shake. I can’t remember if I wished them a good night, only that I couldn’t wait to get out of there and punch something really, really hard.
CHAPTER 19
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NATHAN
It was her idea to take separate cars. “I don’t want you to go out of your way,” she’d said, which everyone knows is really code for “I need an escape route if I’m not into you.” It was fine—she lived all the way in the Valley, and the timing would have been tight if I’d had to pick her up. After what I’d been through, I should have been heartened to meet a woman who was playing it safe, but I couldn’t help but feel a tiny bit snubbed.
I knew dating again after six months of self-induced purgatory wasn’t going to undo what I’d done, but I decided to treat the moment like a fresh start all the same. By going forward with integrity, I could step into the kind of man I wanted to be: considerate, honest, not sleeping with another man’s wife. This was Nathan 2.0—the reboot, with a shiny, new operating system worthy of a shiny, new woman.
I took the fastest shower in the history of showers so I could beat Ashley to the restaurant. Nathan 2.0 didn’t want his date to have to wander around looking for someone who wasn’t there yet; he was a gentleman, and gentlemen didn’t do that. The cozy pub was a favorite of mine because of its “secret garden.” I wasn’t a secretive guy anymore, but it was still a great patio, and in truth not much of a secret to the pub’s regular clientele. I went full prepster in flat-front trousers and a linen button front, because that’s who I am. Yes, I owned faded Levi’s and a handful of ironic vintage tees (Wonder Bread, the Beastie Boys, a Warhol-esque Campbell’s soup can), but I wasn’t a Hollywood hipster, and had no interest in pretending to be something I wasn’t anymore.
I stuffed my nervous hands in my pockets as I waited for her at the front door of the pub, happily opening it for patrons like a giddy doorman. Ashley arrived two minutes before the meeting time with wet hair and a smile.
“Sorry, if you wanted a blow-dry, you should have given me more notice,” she said, and I was instantly glad I’d invited her. I took it as a good sign that she was punctual, because kind people don’t make you wait, and I was ready for a little more kindness in my life.
She was effortlessly chatty, and I loved that she laughed easily and unselfconsciously. As we waited to be seated, she told me that while her “true love” was acting, she worked as a tour guide on the side, and I couldn’t decide if that was cool or a little bit sad. I respected that she had to take a day job to make ends meet, but I saw how people—especially in LA—slipped into “temporary” jobs, then suddenly found themselves turning forty and looking back at a life spent waiting for their “real” life to start. The real estate business was full of people who got their licenses to pad their incomes while they tried to be writers, artists, or actors, then never found a path to get back to what they loved.
I knew having a “first date” in a group of friends was risky—who knows what they’ll say about me?—but luckily my friends were on their best behavior. To my relief, they didn’t spend the night telling Ashley about all my misadventures (the time I fell off the booze cruise, set off the hotel fire alarm, got punched in the face by a Girl Scout). Instead they kept the conversation light and contained to subjects (food, pets, home renovations) that would not embarrass me.
Ashley and I were sitting next to each other, but the way the metal chair legs fanned out, I couldn’t sit close enough to touch her hand or put an arm around her, so I didn’t have to fight with myself about whether or not to do that. We were sitting in a circle, so our chairs were turned slightly toward one another’s—enough so I could see her out of the corner of my eye, even when I was looking at someone else. Despite the air between us, I could feel her energy like heat from a campfire—warm and crackling with possibility.
As my buddy Judd told a rambling story about a fishing trip ruined by black flies, I felt Ashley’s eyes on me, so I turned to look at her. The way she smiled at me made my pulse quicken, and I was suddenly hopeful this kind-of date would end like a real one.
“So, Ashley,” Judd’s wife, Reina, finally said, “what do you do?”
I always found “What do you do?” to be a rude question. It was perfectly reasonable to want to know what a person did for a living, but it always felt judgmental to me—a way to ascertain if that person was worth your time. Reina was nice, and she had probably heard that fishing story a hundred times and was eager to change the subject, but it still felt inelegant.
“I’m an actress,” Ashley said. And I knew what was coming next.
“Oh! How exciting,” Reina enthused. “What might have I seen you in?” It was a reasonable question, but also a loaded one. But Ashley took it in stride.