Superfan (Brooklyn #3)(64)

Becky blinks up at him. “Oh, I think I can stay alive long enough for that.”

“Good deal.” He gives her another hot smile. “Call me tomorrow and we’ll make a date.”

She glances down at the check to read what he’s written. “I’ll do that, Carlos. I’m Becky by the way.”

“It was a real pleasure meeting you, Becky.” He gives her one last grin that’s full of heat and promise. Then he walks away.

Becky lets out a happy squeak the moment he’s out of earshot. “I feel lucky tonight.”

“Because you’re getting lucky soon.”

“Was that way too easy?” she asks. “I should have made him work for it.”

“Embrace the easy,” I say. “Trust me, here. Making them work for it sometimes backfires.” I have the scars to prove it.

“Right!” Becky claps her hands. “So does that mean we’re moving to New York? I’ve always wanted to see shows on Broadway. And the pizza is really pretty great!”

“No! That’s not what I was saying. It’s not that easy.”

“Isn’t it? Let’s review…” She gives me an appraising glance. “You’re living in your cramped little studio right now, which is supposed to be temporary. You work for yourself and could easily wear those ratty slippers of yours in any city. Besides—think of all the miles you could put between you and Brett Ferris.”

“He spends half his time in New York at the label.”

“Fine.” She waves away this thought with her bright red manicure. “He’s not a factor. But somebody else is. A cute man—a nice man—wants to settle down with you. Why aren’t you asking me to find you a plane ticket?”

“Because it’s way too soon. We can’t just move in together.”

“Uh-huh. Aren’t you the one who spent yesterday afternoon writing a song about this? ‘Ask the universe,’ Dee. ‘Anything could happen.’”

“You are such a pain in my ass,” I grumble. “Those are just lyrics. We all know that I’m more cynical than my music.”

Becky frowns at me. “This is true. But it’s also fixable. There’s really no reason why you can’t make a grand gesture for Silas. You two can’t do things the ordinary way. You’re not ordinary people. You don’t lead ordinary lives.”

I put a pile of cash inside the bill wallet. I know what Becky is trying to say. And there are some pretty extraordinary things about my life. Like getting a table at Cactus when other people are waiting months for a reservation.

But the fact is this: on the inside I’m super ordinary. And this ordinary girl does not have the courage to up and move thousands of miles across the country to ask a man to love her. Even a man as great as Silas.

What if it didn’t work out? I barely have roots in L.A., but I have none at all in Brooklyn.

“Look. Time to roll.”

My reverie is ended by Becky’s announcement that Mr. Muscles is now outside with the car. She shows me his text as proof. “Great.” I gather myself together and follow her outside. She can’t resist giving our waiter a cute little wave goodbye.

Outside, Mr. Muscles practically vaults out of the running car in order to escort me across those treacherous fifteen feet of busy Melrose sidewalk. I roll my eyes as he takes my elbow in hand.

“Please, miss. Spare some change?” I hear the rattle of coins in a cup.

Turning, I slow our progress. This causes my bodyguard to roll his eyes. At least we annoy each other evenly.

The panhandler is a youngish man with long hair and a tie-dye shirt.

And call me sexist, but I don’t usually hand cash to men who look so healthy. This one, though? He happens to have very small baby sleeping on his forearm, her tiny head cupped in his palm.

There’s a cardboard sign propped in front of him. Just became a single parent. Wife OD’d. Need a bus ticket to South Dakota where family can help me.

“Oh man,” Becky mutters, but I can’t tell if she’s moved by the story or just very intuitive about what will happen next.

Mr. Muscles nudges me toward the car, and I let him tuck me inside. But already I’m searching my bag for my checkbook.

“What if he spends it on drugs?” Becky asks, hopping into the other side. “At the very least you should write the check to Greyhound.”

“I suppose that’s a good point. Google it?”

“Ladies, we need to…” my bodyguard tries.

“In a moment,” I demand in my best diva voice. Becky and I are both tapping at our phones. I’m pricing bus tickets to South Dakota.

“I’ll be damned,” Becky says. “You can pay by personal check if you buy your ticket in person at the station.”

“Sweet.” I’m already scribbling the fare onto the check. It’s several hundred dollars.

I count out three twenty dollars bills and hand them to her with the check. “For food and diapers. Bus trips take days.”

“But drugs…” she mumbles.

“You’re too young to be so cynical.”

“You’re too cynical to tell me I’m too young.” She gets out of the car anyway.

I watch through the tinted glass as she hands the man the check and the cash, and explains what to do. His eyes widen. And then he puts a hand in front of his eyes, and his shoulders shake.