My dad agreed to stay quiet. He never said a word to Jay about those three seconds. He never asked his business partner about my alleged crush on him. My dad did what he knew how to do. End things coldly and clinically and preserve whatever was still intact of his dignity. But those fictional three seconds that never happened did what I needed them to do—they protected me, they protected Noah, and they served as payback to Jay for screwing my mom behind my dad’s back.
I know Jay deserved it. I know he’s scum.
But it’s not as if I can take the high road here.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Noah
The grassy, musty smell of old books fills my nostrils as I walk past tattered copies of Treasure Island and Moby Dick, the spines nearly breaking. As comfortable as I was as a kid with the divas of showbiz, with the velvet curtains, and late nights in lounges, I was equally at home in a library, the only place where my mom would leave me alone if she had to attend an audition.
I find the small lecture room easily, and I slip in silently. The room is half full. A woman knits in the front row, and a man reads the paper in the back, and everyone is quietly waiting. I take a seat in the middle as Tremaine walks in. When he sees me, he stops briefly in his tracks, so quick it’s nearly unnoticeable. He nods and heads for the lectern.
He clears his throat, says hello, and begins his talk. He chats about finding his passion, about how humor writing can help people learn to read, and about how important it is to chase your dreams. He talks too about the things that made him happy when he was a kid – reading, laughing, writing jokes. It amazes me that this guy is known for his sharp, espionage-centric hits, but literacy through comedy is what makes him tick. He doesn’t advertise these small moments in a library on a Sunday morning, but I’d heard he does them from time to time, and simply shows up, like when Woody Allen used to appear at bars and play his sax.
After he finishes he chats with some of the crowd. I wait for them to clear, then head to the lectern, extend a hand, and thank him.
“I was surprised to see you here,” he says, and the small grin tells me my presence is not a bad surprise.
“I had it on my calendar. I’m a big believer in following your dreams. It’s always good to hear others talk about it too,” I say, looking him in the eyes, letting him know I mean this earnestly.
“I’m glad you enjoyed the talk.”
“Hey, David,” I say, tossing out a question as we chat in the quiet room, surrounded by old and new books, and the quiet hum of the air conditioner. “What else made you happy when you were a kid?”
He smiles, and claps me on a shoulder. “Besides books and writing? Well, do I need to say it? The girls. Always the girls.”
I laugh deeply, and he joins me. “They do have a way of making the bad things seem better.”
“Girls are vexing and wonderful. I’ll take the bad with the good and the good with the bad. That’s what I really want to write next. Screw all this spy stuff. I want to write a love story,” he says, as he begins packing up his messenger bag, sliding his notes into a side pocket.
“What’s the setup?”
“The guy’s been in love with a girl for years,” he says quickly, as if it’s obvious. Maybe it is to him. Maybe it’s a story that comes from a certainty inside him.
“Does he get the girl?”
He winks as he slings his bag on his shoulder. “Tune in at eight and we’ll see.”
“But of course not till the season finale,” I add.
“And even then who knows if it’ll have a happy ending. Not all love stories do, but that doesn’t make them any less powerful.”
I nod several times. “Truer words,” I say quietly, as we leave the room.
“We’ll call it The One That Got Away.”
A sad wistfulness drifts through my veins at the name. “There’s always a girl like that.”
“Always,” he says, and he claps me on the back.
Then I leave. Because I have a girl to see in Brooklyn in an hour.
Kennedy
You have never seen eyes look like saucers until you’ve seen Amanda take in the visual feast of Lane for the first time. Oh, and that thing people do when their jaws drop? Picture Amanda as a cartoon character whose mouth plummets to the ground like a cash register drawer, then cha-chings back up.
“Amanda, this is Lane,” I say after we find Lane at a table inside a bustling Dr. Insomnia’s. The place is packed with Sunday afternoon coffee drinkers, and I have an hour with my friends before I meet Noah. “Lane, meet Amanda.”
“It’s a pleasure,” Lane says as he rises and shakes her hand. Then, like a character from a romance novel, he plants a delicate kiss on her hand. She blushes the color of a fire engine.
“Hi-lo,” she manages, some combination of “hi” and “hello.”
“Dork,” I say, and we all sit down.
Amanda laughs, then Lane asks if we want something.
“Caramel mocha pour moi,” Amanda says.
To me, Lane asks, “Espresso for you, Kennedy?”
“Mais oui.”
While he orders, Amanda leans forward and grips my hand so hard I swear the veins are going to burst. “Holy Mary, Mother of God. He is like Abercrombie & Fitch made real,” she says, as her eyes do their planet-size imitation.
“He’s not bad looking,” I say with a shrug.
“How are you not madly in love with him?”