This Will Only Hurt a Little(56)

I would still have to pull my car over occasionally and sob, deep heaving grief cries, which would hit me in waves when I had a second to myself to think or some song would come on the radio. Some days, I truly thought there would never be a time when I wouldn’t feel that way.

A week into June, Carpenter and I went to see Pinback, one of my favorite bands at the time, play at a club in Hollywood called Avalon. After the show, she wanted to go home, and after we said goodbye, I pulled out my phone and called my friend Joel, who was always up for a party.

“Oh my God, BABE! Tonight is the OPENING night of the Roosevelt Hotel pool bar! It’s Amanda Demme’s night! LET’S GO! I’m PICKING YOU UP NOW!”

Ten minutes later, his vintage Mercedes screeched around the corner.

“BABE! GET IN!!!”

We pulled up to the valet at the Roosevelt Hotel, which was teeming with huge black SUVs all jockeying for space, and scantily clad club girls milling about everywhere. Joel took my hand and pulled me through the packed crowd to the velvet ropes at the front. The scene was already feeling insanely overwhelming, but Joel had connections, and I was certain that this was the place to be on this particular Saturday night. He held my hand tightly as he pushed us through the crush to the two huge bouncers guarding the entrance. I saw him lean into the bouncer and say, “I HAVE BUSY PHILIPPS WITH ME.”

I wanted to die. What?? HE wasn’t on the list? He was trying to use me to get into the opening? The bouncer gave me the once-over and no joke, shrugged his shoulders like he had no idea what Joel was talking about. Just then, Amanda Demme, the matriarch of the Hollywood hotspot scene in the early 2000s, came up with her list. The bouncer whispered to her and gestured to us. She looked at me up and down, like you would see in a movie, then turned back to the bouncer and very clearly said, “NO.”

This was beyond. I mean. How does one recover from that kind of humiliation?

Joel turned to me. “That CUNT. Now I’m mad. We’re getting in there!”

“No. Joel, let’s just go to the Abbey or something.”

“Fuck no!”

With that, he grabbed me and we snuck around to where there was a service entrance, and all of a sudden, we were in. It was shockingly easy to sneak in, which I wish we would’ve just done from the start so I could have been spared the humiliation of Amanda Demme’s withering gaze of rejection. We tried to get a drink at the bar, but it was at least ten deep. I saw Wilmer Valderrama holding court in the back with a gaggle of hot girls hanging on his every word. I gave a head nod to him from across the pool but there was no sense heading over there to say hi. It was almost impossible to move, it was so crowded.

“Joel. I’m just gonna go home. This is lame.”

“Yeah, babe. I thought the crowd would be better, but you know, whatever.”

We started to slowly make our way out when I turned to take one last look around.

“JOEL! WAIT! That guy! I want to go talk to him! I’m obsessed with him and every time I see him we talk forever but he’s never asked me out. Is he gay?”

On the complete opposite end of the party, a pool between us, in a suit jacket and tie, smoking under a perfectly lit palm tree, was a guy I’d run into three or four times in the year since Craig and I had broken up. And every time we saw each other, we would stand outside and smoke and talk, but he never asked for my number or asked me out. Obviously, I assumed he was gay.

“Marc Silverstein? No. He’s not gay. But if you’re into him you’d better get used to Lizzy Caplan and Kate Towne because those bitches are always by his side.”

“Let’s go talk to him.”

“Oh! He’s with Anna!”

The only thing Joel liked more than whatever current actress he was hanging out with was finding a more famous actress to hang out with. Marc Silverstein was standing with Anna Faris. We headed back into the fray, toward their little group.

“HEY!” Marc said, and I smiled at him.

“Hi!”

“We always see each other at real Hollywood hot spots!”

I laughed. “Yeah, I know. It’s actually super embarrassing.”

“It’s funny! I was just thinking about you. I’m having a birthday party soon with Lizzy Caplan. You know her, right? From Freaks and Geeks?”

“Yeah. I haven’t seen her in a while though.”

“Let me have your email, I’ll send you the invite!” He pulled out his Sidekick and looked up, dejected. “Oh shit. It’s dead. Oh well. Just tell me. I’ll remember.”

“Oh. My email is long and dumb and you won’t remember it now!”

He threw his cigarette to the ground and stomped on it. “Yeah I will!”

I told him my silly AOL address, which I had come up with freshman year of college. [email protected].

“Cool. I’ll email you.”

Joel and I headed out, back to the valet, where we waited forty minutes for his car to be returned to us. The next day I got an email from Marc Silverstein.

Good to see you last night. Here’s the invite for the party, as promised. But maybe we should try to see each other before that? Like on purpose.

I walked into the living room where Emily was doing the crossword and petting our dog, Henry. She looked up at me, “What’s up, Pup?”

“I’m gonna go out with this guy,” I told her, “and we’re totally gonna get married.”