“David Tremaine,” I say, extending a hand. “Noah Hayes. I wanted to say hello because I’ve always admired your work. I think you were one of the first to truly poke fun at the hipster universe in Brooklyn before it became a target for everyone.”
He raises a bushy eyebrow. His expression is wary, but pleased. “You read my New York Press pieces?”
“Of course. I can see how they’ve informed your shows. Your dark sense of humor was evident in those columns. I read them growing up,” I say, referring to the pieces he penned for the paper well before he started writing for the small screen. He was a humor columnist many years ago, and sometimes when my mom went to auditions she’d drop me off at the nearby library for an hour and I’d spend that time reading Tremaine’s columns.
“No one ever notices that I wrote for the New York Press,” he says, as he takes his vodka tonic from the bartender and tosses a green bill on the black lacquer. “Or that Brooklyn hipsters needed to be mocked.”
I laughed. “They do. And most people don’t notice because most people think TV writers are born that way. Fully formed and writing in dialogue. But most cut their teeth doing something else.”
His eyes light up. “Exactly. Everyone started someplace no one wants to remember. Journalism. Speechwriting. Even press releases. But hey, I’m lucky to be able to write, right?” he says, his comment a reminder that Tremaine is here at this charity event because he’s a big supporter of literacy efforts. He grew up with a mom who was a teacher and regularly volunteered to teach reading and writing to underprivileged adults.
“We all are lucky on that count, and I’m lucky that the New York Press hired you because your columns cracked me up. They made me laugh when I needed a laugh,” I say as his wife rejoins him, hooking her arm through his and flashing a smile. A waiter passes by and offers tuna on a chichi-looking potato chip. I shake my head no.
Tremaine lifts his chin at me. “Noah Hayes, you said?”
I nod.
“You’re an agent, aren’t you?”
“Yes, and I can see you’re busy. It was a pleasure to meet you.”
“Wait. You’re not going to try to … ,” he says, letting his voice trail off.
“Woo you?” I ask as I raise an eyebrow.
He nods, and his wife laughs. He wraps an arm around her waist and plants a kiss on her cheek. “Yes, we’re used to agents wooing my husband,” she says, chiming in.
“Want me to? Woo you?”
“I’m just surprised you didn’t,” he adds, a note of almost delight in his voice.
“Good. I think it’s good when we can surprise each other in a business where there’s little of that left. I’ll leave it at this. I’ve been a fan of yours since forever,” I say, then I walk away.
A guy like Tremaine isn’t looking for an agent who’s like every other agent. I have to leave him wanting more.
I find my date, feeling that momentary pang of annoyance when I see Jenna and not Kennedy. It’s not Jenna’s fault that she’s not the one I want; nor is it her problem that out of nowhere a deep and lonely longing slams into me, and I wish I was sneaking off to see Kennedy in the park. Hell, I’d gladly settle for just running into her on the street like the other night.
I wish she’d say she’s ready.
But I won’t push her. I can’t. She needs what she needs right now, even though she’s the only person who ever truly needed me. And look, it’s not like I have a thing for younger girls. I’ve dated plenty my age. There was my college girlfriend Sandy, then the hot drummer Hayley that Matthew introduced me to, and then the publicist Mica last year, the one Jonathan thought I was still seeing, even though she’s the one I broke up with when I started falling hard for the girl I wasn’t supposed to fall for.
Soon, Jenna and I leave MoMA. As I walk her home, she clears her throat and says, “So I was wondering …”
And I can almost predict what’s coming next.
“If I could show you a treatment for a sitcom I’m working on,” she continues, and there it is. The hit-up. The inevitable ask. I know that’s why Jenna agreed to come with me tonight. But then, it’s not as if I want anything more from her, so it seems only fair that I give her this side of me—my work side.
“Sure,” I say.
Before I even walk through my door, Jenna’s e-mailed me her script. I write back and tell her I’m looking forward to reading it.
Then I search for something I can give freely. I find a picture of a deer with a white heart on his butt. I can hear Kennedy’s laughter as I hit Send.
Chapter Ten
Kennedy
I knew his other girlfriends, including Mica. She came before me.
She was pretty in a standard New York City entry-level-professional sort of way—straight brown hair clipped back, black sweaters and gray slacks and kitten heels. Mica was fascinated with my school, as if she could never imagine taking a class that lacked a boy. The Agnes Ethel School for Girls was all I’d had ever known since kindergarten, so I couldn’t fathom taking a class with a boy.
“Does it even cross your mind at school anymore that there are no boys, or are you just totally used to it?” Mica asked as we chatted during one of my mom’s parties one spring night a little more than a year ago.
“Totally used to it,” I said. “But it’s like the running joke that never gets old. We play Top Five Things That Suck about Going to an All-Girls’ School during impromptu lacrosse practice.”