The Unidentified Redhead
Page 4
While I was reading—oh no.
“I told you so. How far did you get?” she asked with a bemused expression, looking pointedly at the magazines strewn across the floor next to me.
I attempted to crawl further under the blanket while she pointed accus-ingly at me, and I finally rolled my eyes and held up my hands, signifying my surrender.
“OK, OK, I give. It’s brilliant and I’m totally sucked in. I’m in love with Super Sexy Scientist Guy!” I admitted, blushing as I thought of the passages I’d read the night before. Joshua had arrived in nineteenth-century Paris and was engaged in some rather intense “international relations” with a young woman who worked in a millinery. I didn’t know where this story was going to go, but I was sure digging it. I might have also been imagining a certain Mr. Hamilton in the role of Joshua, and that made me blush further.
“Oh, boy,” she squealed. “Wait until you get to the part where he picks her up and pushes her up against the—”
“Holly! Not fair! Let me read them on my own. At the rate I’m going I’ll be finished by the end of the week.” I raised a finger in her direction and shook it.
“I won’t tell you anything … but promise me you’ll keep me posted on what part you’re on,” she pleaded with me.
“Agreed,” I muttered as she left the room, glowing.
Later that day, I was finishing a run at Griffith Park. I had spent the rest of the morning trying to work, but I was unable to stay away from the damn stories. I was well into the third short story by now, and losing ground fast to this new addiction. By three p.m., it was obvious that I would get no work done, so I decided to go for a run. I was lucky that my job allowed me a flexible schedule and I mainly worked from home. I had gone back to school after moving back from L.A. and got a second degree in instructional design. I created and designed training programs and materials and had been fortunate enough to be able to work in a freelance capacity. This work was something I enjoyed and was good at, although it wasn’t satisfying the way performing was. As I was running, I reflected on how happy I was here and how I had made it back.
When I lived in L.A. the first time, I was focused only on what I thought fame would bring me. I wanted the attention, the money, the lifestyle—instead of concentrating on the work, on the craft. What I have since realized is that, back then, it was all about the validation, looking out instead of in. I rarely allowed myself to really let go, to truly trust myself or whoever I was sharing a stage with. I had rare moments of honesty on stage, but they were so powerful and exhilarating that I quickly moved on to surer footing. I would transition into a punchline, or camp it up, taking myself out of the moment and back into what I knew. Be funny and beautiful, but not real.
When I moved back home, I was mortified. I had failed for the first time in my life, really failed. I hated that, but not enough to fight for it. I continued to gain weight and was almost unrecognizable to anyone who knew me. It happened over the course of several years, so I didn’t notice how unraveled my life and its direction had become. I was lucky enough when I went back to school to find something that I was good at. Once I was finished with school for the second time, the jobs I was able to get afforded me the luxury of working from home, and I cocooned there.
Holly and I stayed in close contact, but rarely saw each other. I had a few friends that I spent time with, and while I went out on a few dates from time to time, there was no one special. For someone that had partied like a rock star and never wanted for male companionship, I had effectively shut down that part of my life. It was as if I was numb … down there. I’d had a highly charged sex life and a strong sexual appetite, but once I started to gain weight, I no longer had the desire. OK, strike that. I had the desire, but I was so reluctant to let anyone touch me. Over time, that part of me just went to sleep. I had become a shell of my former self and didn’t even know it.
Everything changed when my friends took me out for my birthday. I had stayed in contact with several of my girlfriends from high school, getting together for dinners and cocktails occasionally. They always made me tell them stories about the exciting life I had led in California, all eighteen months of it, and it was fun. There was still a little crazy left in me, and I let it out sometimes, albeit carefully. They had surprised me with tickets to see Rent, and while it had been years since I had seen a play or musical of any kind, I was touched that they would remember how much I had loved the Rent soundtrack. I had never actually seen the show and thought it would be an interesting night.
Interesting did not even begin to describe it.
From the moment I walked into the theater, from seeing the stage, to even finding our seats in the mezzanine, my skin was tingling. My senses were heightened, my breath was coming fast, and I actually felt a little dizzy. Then the lights went out.
There is a feeling, an electricity that happens in live theater. There is a connection between the actors and the audience that is palpable. When the lights came back up, I saw the band on stage and felt the music begin to move across me—I was overwhelmed. I tensed and when I recognized the opening song, I could feel tears beginning to form in my eyes. Before one note was sung, before one word was spoken, I was lost in the moment. And I began to cry.
It was as though everything I had been missing in my life came into focus, and I couldn’t hide from it anymore. I clutched the armrest as silent sobs racked through my body. The tears were falling, but I was filled with such a sense of joy, of rapture, of belonging. I couldn’t stop the smile that was stretching from ear to ear. It was magic. It was the closest to a religious experience that I had ever come. At one point, my friend to my left tried to ask me something, but I just shook my head. I couldn’t take my eyes off the stage. I knew that this was what I was supposed to be doing with my life, and I could not wait to start living again.
After that night, it was like there was a hand pushing against my back, constantly keeping me moving forward. I went home, looked in the mirror and cried at what I saw. Not so much about the weight, but the woman looking back at me had none of the spark, none of the crazy that I used to love about myself.
I cried for the time that I had lost. I cried for letting things go on like this for too long. I cried for the living I had deprived myself of for so long. Then, once I was done crying, I went to work.
I obtained the services of a personal trainer the next day and set about changing the outside. I also started speaking to a counselor to change the inside.
I took an acting class at the local theater and was insanely happy. I was thrilled to be back in the company of creative people again and threw myself into every scene, every critique and every exercise as if it was my job. Then, one evening, I went alone to a club that was sponsoring an open mike night. I climbed onto the tiny stage with my sheet music, which I gave to the accompanist. I sang my song, hearing my voice ring out strong and clear through the club, and felt whole. I felt like I had come home.
I began to open up and have fun again. As the weight came off, my confidence returned and I became reacquainted with the power that kind of confidence can bring a woman. I went out on dates and the first time that I invited a man back to my house … well, let’s just say it was another religious experience. Why the hell did I deprive myself for so long? I rejoiced in my reawakened sexuality, and while I was careful, I certainly enjoyed myself. I was definitely more aggressive than I was back in the day, and I was pleased to realize that I was still quite good at the sexing.
After almost two years of self-discovery and work, I was ready to make another big change. I visited Holly in L.A., and by the end of the first day, she had already invited me to move in with her. I was ready to move back and start my new life. I knew that I could continue working on a consultant basis no matter where I was living, and it just felt right. I thought about her offer for about seven seconds and then agreed. We were both thrilled to be spending time together again. I knew that living with her would be as fun as it was the first time, and it certainly was. She was truly my best friend, my sister, and I would do anything for her. She also saw through all my bullshit and never let me get away with it. You had to love her for that.
When I got back to my car, I stretched out a little from my run and then climbed in. I put the top down while I took a long pull on my water bottle. I glanced at my cell and saw that I had a few messages, the first of these from Holly, asking me to pick up Mr. Chow for dinner on my way home.
The second was from Nick asking me if I wanted to go out dancing the following night. His favorite club in West Hollywood played all eighties music on certain nights, and it was the best for shaking your ass.
The third was a text from a number I didn’t recognize: Sheridan,
The Lost Boys is on TNT tonight.
I know how much you desire Haim.
I laughed when I read it, knowing there was only one unknown number that could have sent me this text. I quickly texted him back: Hamilton,
I already have my DVR set to record it so I can “desire” myself whenever the mood strikes.
I plugged in my iPod and was selecting some driving music when my phone buzzed, alerting me to a new text:
Sheridan, now I am concerned for you …
I think you need a new celebrity to crush on, someone a little younger, perhaps.
More charm, less heroin.
I felt my heart flutter a little . He was cute and funny. And twenty-four, Grace, twenty-four!
I thought about his hair then, those gorgeous curls, and his green eyes. I thought about the way he looked when he was biting on his lower lip. Ah, f**k it.
Hamilton,
I’ve been thinking about upgrading
to someone new for my “daydreaming.”
Any thoughts?
I chose my music, and right before I pulled out of the parking lot, I got another text:
Sheridan,
I’m having several thoughts …
One question, though.
Still on for the tryst?
I laughed aloud and sent him one more text: Hamilton,
Hell yes, although I’ll need to be swept off my feet.
He responded in less than a minute:
Here’s to getting you off your feet, Grace …
Dammit, he’d first-named me.
Chapter 5
After getting back, I took a quick shower to wash the canyon off. When I was finished, I headed back down to the kitchen, where Holly had gotten home and was heating up the Mr. Chow that I had picked up for dinner.
“How was your day, dear?” I asked, giving her a peck on the cheek in my best 1950s homemaker voice.
“It was busy. I’m glad to be home. I see you had a productive day,” she answered, nodding to the magazine that was in the freezer as she removed the bottle of Absolut.
I laughed and said, “I had to hide it. It was making me crazy! I was trying to write training protocols all afternoon and it was calling to me. I finally had to put it away.”
I got out the jar of olives and began mixing two dirty martinis.
“How far did you get?” she asked, as she gratefully took the cocktail I handed to her.
“Hmm, let me think. He was talking with his assistant about making some modifications to the time machine. I really love the character of Isaac.”
“Wait until you see the actor they got to play him in the film. Super cute.” She grinned, taking a sip of her cocktail and shivering a little.
“How much time until dinner?”
“Oh, I’d say about twenty minutes.”
That was just enough time to grab my magazine from the freezer again and settle into the living room for a quick, pre-dinner read.
It wasn’t too long before I shouted, “Wait … what? His time machine broke?
He’s stuck in ancient Egypt! He can’t get back?” I jumped up, running into the kitchen with a look of panic on my face. Holly was placing all the food on the table.
“Grace, settle down,” she soothed.
“But what about Penelope in the first story? Will he get back to see her?
Will he get back to his own time? What about … ” I stammered, and then realized that I was excessively invested in this story. I attempted to reel it back in a little. “I mean, it just seems that he should have planned ahead for these kinds of mishaps. I don’t know. Whatever,” I said nonchalantly as I sat down and began nibbling on a spring roll, trying to appear uninterested. “I wonder if, when he gets back, if he gets back … ” I ventured, glancing at Holly sideways to see if she was going to give me any information.
“Oh, hell no. I’m not giving it up,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You said you didn’t want me to give anything away. You’ll have to read it and find out.” I sat quietly for a few minutes, sucking on my spring roll, trying to figure out what my next tactic should be.
He couldn’t really be stuck there, although the idea of Joshua meeting a pharaoh’s daughter had intriguing possibilities. Maybe if I asked nicely, she would at least tell me if …
“You can quit strategizing, dickhead. I’m not telling you a thing,” she said again, smiling through a mouthful of garlic noodles.
Busted.
“Man, you suck! I would totally tell you,” I countered.
“Like hel you would! Remember when I was in the hospital with pneumonia and I couldn’t see Sex and the City until a week after the premiere? I asked you repeatedly whether Carrie and Big got married. Do you remember what you told me?” she said snidely.
“No,” I answered, becoming decidedly more interested in my plate of vegetables.
“You said no way in hell would you tell me, you loved me too much to not let me find out for myself. This is the same thing. Sucks for you,” she said triumphantly.
“I told you so. How far did you get?” she asked with a bemused expression, looking pointedly at the magazines strewn across the floor next to me.
I attempted to crawl further under the blanket while she pointed accus-ingly at me, and I finally rolled my eyes and held up my hands, signifying my surrender.
“OK, OK, I give. It’s brilliant and I’m totally sucked in. I’m in love with Super Sexy Scientist Guy!” I admitted, blushing as I thought of the passages I’d read the night before. Joshua had arrived in nineteenth-century Paris and was engaged in some rather intense “international relations” with a young woman who worked in a millinery. I didn’t know where this story was going to go, but I was sure digging it. I might have also been imagining a certain Mr. Hamilton in the role of Joshua, and that made me blush further.
“Oh, boy,” she squealed. “Wait until you get to the part where he picks her up and pushes her up against the—”
“Holly! Not fair! Let me read them on my own. At the rate I’m going I’ll be finished by the end of the week.” I raised a finger in her direction and shook it.
“I won’t tell you anything … but promise me you’ll keep me posted on what part you’re on,” she pleaded with me.
“Agreed,” I muttered as she left the room, glowing.
Later that day, I was finishing a run at Griffith Park. I had spent the rest of the morning trying to work, but I was unable to stay away from the damn stories. I was well into the third short story by now, and losing ground fast to this new addiction. By three p.m., it was obvious that I would get no work done, so I decided to go for a run. I was lucky that my job allowed me a flexible schedule and I mainly worked from home. I had gone back to school after moving back from L.A. and got a second degree in instructional design. I created and designed training programs and materials and had been fortunate enough to be able to work in a freelance capacity. This work was something I enjoyed and was good at, although it wasn’t satisfying the way performing was. As I was running, I reflected on how happy I was here and how I had made it back.
When I lived in L.A. the first time, I was focused only on what I thought fame would bring me. I wanted the attention, the money, the lifestyle—instead of concentrating on the work, on the craft. What I have since realized is that, back then, it was all about the validation, looking out instead of in. I rarely allowed myself to really let go, to truly trust myself or whoever I was sharing a stage with. I had rare moments of honesty on stage, but they were so powerful and exhilarating that I quickly moved on to surer footing. I would transition into a punchline, or camp it up, taking myself out of the moment and back into what I knew. Be funny and beautiful, but not real.
When I moved back home, I was mortified. I had failed for the first time in my life, really failed. I hated that, but not enough to fight for it. I continued to gain weight and was almost unrecognizable to anyone who knew me. It happened over the course of several years, so I didn’t notice how unraveled my life and its direction had become. I was lucky enough when I went back to school to find something that I was good at. Once I was finished with school for the second time, the jobs I was able to get afforded me the luxury of working from home, and I cocooned there.
Holly and I stayed in close contact, but rarely saw each other. I had a few friends that I spent time with, and while I went out on a few dates from time to time, there was no one special. For someone that had partied like a rock star and never wanted for male companionship, I had effectively shut down that part of my life. It was as if I was numb … down there. I’d had a highly charged sex life and a strong sexual appetite, but once I started to gain weight, I no longer had the desire. OK, strike that. I had the desire, but I was so reluctant to let anyone touch me. Over time, that part of me just went to sleep. I had become a shell of my former self and didn’t even know it.
Everything changed when my friends took me out for my birthday. I had stayed in contact with several of my girlfriends from high school, getting together for dinners and cocktails occasionally. They always made me tell them stories about the exciting life I had led in California, all eighteen months of it, and it was fun. There was still a little crazy left in me, and I let it out sometimes, albeit carefully. They had surprised me with tickets to see Rent, and while it had been years since I had seen a play or musical of any kind, I was touched that they would remember how much I had loved the Rent soundtrack. I had never actually seen the show and thought it would be an interesting night.
Interesting did not even begin to describe it.
From the moment I walked into the theater, from seeing the stage, to even finding our seats in the mezzanine, my skin was tingling. My senses were heightened, my breath was coming fast, and I actually felt a little dizzy. Then the lights went out.
There is a feeling, an electricity that happens in live theater. There is a connection between the actors and the audience that is palpable. When the lights came back up, I saw the band on stage and felt the music begin to move across me—I was overwhelmed. I tensed and when I recognized the opening song, I could feel tears beginning to form in my eyes. Before one note was sung, before one word was spoken, I was lost in the moment. And I began to cry.
It was as though everything I had been missing in my life came into focus, and I couldn’t hide from it anymore. I clutched the armrest as silent sobs racked through my body. The tears were falling, but I was filled with such a sense of joy, of rapture, of belonging. I couldn’t stop the smile that was stretching from ear to ear. It was magic. It was the closest to a religious experience that I had ever come. At one point, my friend to my left tried to ask me something, but I just shook my head. I couldn’t take my eyes off the stage. I knew that this was what I was supposed to be doing with my life, and I could not wait to start living again.
After that night, it was like there was a hand pushing against my back, constantly keeping me moving forward. I went home, looked in the mirror and cried at what I saw. Not so much about the weight, but the woman looking back at me had none of the spark, none of the crazy that I used to love about myself.
I cried for the time that I had lost. I cried for letting things go on like this for too long. I cried for the living I had deprived myself of for so long. Then, once I was done crying, I went to work.
I obtained the services of a personal trainer the next day and set about changing the outside. I also started speaking to a counselor to change the inside.
I took an acting class at the local theater and was insanely happy. I was thrilled to be back in the company of creative people again and threw myself into every scene, every critique and every exercise as if it was my job. Then, one evening, I went alone to a club that was sponsoring an open mike night. I climbed onto the tiny stage with my sheet music, which I gave to the accompanist. I sang my song, hearing my voice ring out strong and clear through the club, and felt whole. I felt like I had come home.
I began to open up and have fun again. As the weight came off, my confidence returned and I became reacquainted with the power that kind of confidence can bring a woman. I went out on dates and the first time that I invited a man back to my house … well, let’s just say it was another religious experience. Why the hell did I deprive myself for so long? I rejoiced in my reawakened sexuality, and while I was careful, I certainly enjoyed myself. I was definitely more aggressive than I was back in the day, and I was pleased to realize that I was still quite good at the sexing.
After almost two years of self-discovery and work, I was ready to make another big change. I visited Holly in L.A., and by the end of the first day, she had already invited me to move in with her. I was ready to move back and start my new life. I knew that I could continue working on a consultant basis no matter where I was living, and it just felt right. I thought about her offer for about seven seconds and then agreed. We were both thrilled to be spending time together again. I knew that living with her would be as fun as it was the first time, and it certainly was. She was truly my best friend, my sister, and I would do anything for her. She also saw through all my bullshit and never let me get away with it. You had to love her for that.
When I got back to my car, I stretched out a little from my run and then climbed in. I put the top down while I took a long pull on my water bottle. I glanced at my cell and saw that I had a few messages, the first of these from Holly, asking me to pick up Mr. Chow for dinner on my way home.
The second was from Nick asking me if I wanted to go out dancing the following night. His favorite club in West Hollywood played all eighties music on certain nights, and it was the best for shaking your ass.
The third was a text from a number I didn’t recognize: Sheridan,
The Lost Boys is on TNT tonight.
I know how much you desire Haim.
I laughed when I read it, knowing there was only one unknown number that could have sent me this text. I quickly texted him back: Hamilton,
I already have my DVR set to record it so I can “desire” myself whenever the mood strikes.
I plugged in my iPod and was selecting some driving music when my phone buzzed, alerting me to a new text:
Sheridan, now I am concerned for you …
I think you need a new celebrity to crush on, someone a little younger, perhaps.
More charm, less heroin.
I felt my heart flutter a little . He was cute and funny. And twenty-four, Grace, twenty-four!
I thought about his hair then, those gorgeous curls, and his green eyes. I thought about the way he looked when he was biting on his lower lip. Ah, f**k it.
Hamilton,
I’ve been thinking about upgrading
to someone new for my “daydreaming.”
Any thoughts?
I chose my music, and right before I pulled out of the parking lot, I got another text:
Sheridan,
I’m having several thoughts …
One question, though.
Still on for the tryst?
I laughed aloud and sent him one more text: Hamilton,
Hell yes, although I’ll need to be swept off my feet.
He responded in less than a minute:
Here’s to getting you off your feet, Grace …
Dammit, he’d first-named me.
Chapter 5
After getting back, I took a quick shower to wash the canyon off. When I was finished, I headed back down to the kitchen, where Holly had gotten home and was heating up the Mr. Chow that I had picked up for dinner.
“How was your day, dear?” I asked, giving her a peck on the cheek in my best 1950s homemaker voice.
“It was busy. I’m glad to be home. I see you had a productive day,” she answered, nodding to the magazine that was in the freezer as she removed the bottle of Absolut.
I laughed and said, “I had to hide it. It was making me crazy! I was trying to write training protocols all afternoon and it was calling to me. I finally had to put it away.”
I got out the jar of olives and began mixing two dirty martinis.
“How far did you get?” she asked, as she gratefully took the cocktail I handed to her.
“Hmm, let me think. He was talking with his assistant about making some modifications to the time machine. I really love the character of Isaac.”
“Wait until you see the actor they got to play him in the film. Super cute.” She grinned, taking a sip of her cocktail and shivering a little.
“How much time until dinner?”
“Oh, I’d say about twenty minutes.”
That was just enough time to grab my magazine from the freezer again and settle into the living room for a quick, pre-dinner read.
It wasn’t too long before I shouted, “Wait … what? His time machine broke?
He’s stuck in ancient Egypt! He can’t get back?” I jumped up, running into the kitchen with a look of panic on my face. Holly was placing all the food on the table.
“Grace, settle down,” she soothed.
“But what about Penelope in the first story? Will he get back to see her?
Will he get back to his own time? What about … ” I stammered, and then realized that I was excessively invested in this story. I attempted to reel it back in a little. “I mean, it just seems that he should have planned ahead for these kinds of mishaps. I don’t know. Whatever,” I said nonchalantly as I sat down and began nibbling on a spring roll, trying to appear uninterested. “I wonder if, when he gets back, if he gets back … ” I ventured, glancing at Holly sideways to see if she was going to give me any information.
“Oh, hell no. I’m not giving it up,” she said, rolling her eyes. “You said you didn’t want me to give anything away. You’ll have to read it and find out.” I sat quietly for a few minutes, sucking on my spring roll, trying to figure out what my next tactic should be.
He couldn’t really be stuck there, although the idea of Joshua meeting a pharaoh’s daughter had intriguing possibilities. Maybe if I asked nicely, she would at least tell me if …
“You can quit strategizing, dickhead. I’m not telling you a thing,” she said again, smiling through a mouthful of garlic noodles.
Busted.
“Man, you suck! I would totally tell you,” I countered.
“Like hel you would! Remember when I was in the hospital with pneumonia and I couldn’t see Sex and the City until a week after the premiere? I asked you repeatedly whether Carrie and Big got married. Do you remember what you told me?” she said snidely.
“No,” I answered, becoming decidedly more interested in my plate of vegetables.
“You said no way in hell would you tell me, you loved me too much to not let me find out for myself. This is the same thing. Sucks for you,” she said triumphantly.
