Page 11 of Love, Lines, and Alibis
But my dad kept me on the phone for a good minute more while he sent me hugs and kisses and all manner of affectionate reassurances.
As I hung up, finished changing, and made my way to my meeting, I recalled something I’d managed to put aside until then. It was a day I didn’t necessarily want to remember, but present events were bringing it all back.
I hope you are ready for the first flashback portion of this account. Please don’t tell me you think flashbacks are lazy storytelling and bad writing. I don’t know how to tell you this part of the story any other way—or at any other time.
David and I were still together then. It must have been a bit more than two years before the day of the triggered fire alarm at the Eastern Columbia. We were both home, at our cozy bungalow, watching TV, hugging on the sofa under a blanket or affecting some other quintessential expression of basic millennial domesticity.
As we were lying on the couch, he got a message. I was on top of him and made room so he could take his cell phone out of his jeans pocket. He read the message as I teasingly kissed his collarbone and neck. But the moment I saw his face, I knew we wouldn’t be watching another episode ofMindhunter, we wouldn’t be having a conversation about David Fincher’s many talents as a thriller director both in film and TV, and we certainly wouldn’t be making love on top of the imitation midcentury sofa or any other faux midcentury surface in the house that night.
David had the expression I’d learned to associate with a thirst for the truth: He’d been tipped off about something and wanted to chase the story. I was sure he was about to make some kind of excuse and tell me he needed to go work when he didn’t.
“Have you heard anything about Dashing Henry misbehaving on set?” he asked, pausing the laptop whereMindhunterwas playing on top of our recently purchased coffee table.
“Misbehaving?” I asked. My heartbeat rapidly accelerated and I feared David could feel it too.
“We got a tip a few weeks ago from Henry’s former personal assistant. She’d only been at the job a few weeks because she said Henry tried something with her and she left,” he continued.
I had sat up on the sofa and was now at the farthest edge from David. My heart was a nervous mess.
“David, you keep talking in euphemisms.Henry tried something with her.” I was frustrated about his choice of words and echoed them to him so he heard his own lack of clarity. “And why are you telling me all this? You never tell me anything about your job until a story is about to get published and you need me to read the final draft to reassure you...”
“I work with lots of confidential and vulnerable sources, and I like respecting their privacy and safety,” he said.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.” I was probably being harsher than necessary. Or perhaps I wasn’t.
“It’s not that. You know it’s not that!”
“Do I?” I asked. “What’s different this time?”
“My source is getting tired of waiting for me to find another source. You know I need several accounts from different people before thinking about writing or publishing an article, let alone something that could potentially ruin someone’s reputation. And I thought since you worked with Henry, you may have heard something.”
I felt almost relieved about his ignorance but also strangely betrayed by it.
I had leftLA Misconductsa mere few weeks before, and he hadn’t bothered inquiring about it much. I felt he assumed I had gotten tired of the long hours and hard work. And now that my former job would suit his reporting pursuits, he was all nosy about it.
“I’ve heard nothing,” I said. And that was true. There had been no gossip, no warning regarding Dashing Henry and his taste for younger women, who he saw as easy prey—especially those still trying to establish themselves in showbusiness.
As I arrived at the restaurant where I was meeting my agent, I shook off the memory of that day like I’d been shaking off so many others. But I had a notion I’d be having to recall more stuff from my past and my link to Dashing Henry. And I didn’t know if I was ready for it.
8
I’d been seated at the bar of Ramen Hood for ten minutes, waiting for my agent to find a parking spot big enough to fit her supersized Rivian SUV. I used the wait to write and rewrite a message for David. It may sound ridiculous to you but bear in mind that we hadn’t just stopped talking since the breakup. We had halted all forms of digital communication as well, so this was my first text to him in more than two years. Our last text exchange had been about the division of stuff post-breakup. We had both claimed possession of the 1991 paperback edition ofThe Catcher in the Ryein our common bookshelf. In the end, I had lost and had to buy another used copy of the Salinger novel at The Last Bookstore.
After some drafting and redrafting, I was about to send a very uncompromising and boring text to David that read:
Should be done with my agent in 1 hour. Want to talk after that?
But I surprised myself by deleting it and writing something closer to what I really wanted to tell him.
Need you to make me scream like yesterday
Between the non-fire, the dead actor, and all the unpleasant memories, I was starting to feel the stress from the day. All I wanted was a hot shower, a phenomenal fuck, and a siesta.
“Can’t believe you actually want to meet with me today, honey,” Beatrice said, making one of her grand entrances and kissing me on both cheeks.
Well, I don’t,I caught myself thinking but not saying out loud. I wondered, once more, why everyone in Hollywood assumed I was touchy-feely and liked physical contact based solely on my country of origin. I wanted to tell them, I’ve been living in the US since I was a teenager. I have a blue passport too. I have the same qualms about germs you do. Can we please stop with the kissing and the hugging?
I didn’t say a single word though.
