Love Like That. Amanda Hill
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Roman’s really cute. He’s got that clean, woodsy look about him like he was born to wear flannel and whittle small wooden horses on the porch of a cabin in the mountains somewhere. Like a Ralph Lauren ad. His hair is the color of café au lait. And when my man squeezes me in a hug like this, I always remember that he’s a black belt in some exotic, ass-kicking martial art form.
“You just be careful out there, Dalton,” he told me.
I laughed. “You be careful out there.”
He kissed my forehead. “Take care of yourself, okay?”
“Okay.”
I watched him disappear into the terminal. I twisted my ring and wondered why I didn’t feel any different this time. I knew this was real. I knew it was good. But it felt just like any other time. Here today, gone tomorrow.
I bought a Diet Pepsi from a vending machine and sat on the hood of my car on top of the parking garage. The midsummer heat shimmered over the tarmac and sizzled on my skin. At one-fifty-three Roman’s plane lifted into the air, shooting toward the infinite azure sky. I waved four fingers. He was gone.
Normally on a day like this, I would return to the other half of my double life without a moment’s thought. I would return to the place where what started as a hopeless fling became an even more hopeless involvement. Where my lover doesn’t have hidden expectations. Where in fact he seems to have no expectations.
I wouldn’t say Roman has expectations, either. He’s not a forceful man. He doesn’t tell anyone how to live their life. But being around him is like being in church. A place where you just feel like you have to be good. With him I act like someone I’m probably supposed to be. His perfect, devoted little girlfriend. His lovely, good fiancée. With Roman I try to be a lady.
With Jeremy I am neither perfect nor devoted. I don’t think I’m ever very lovely or good. But I can act however I want. I can drink ten Captain Morgan and Cokes and talk gibberish and throw my clothes off and dance around like an idiot. I can confess to something horrible. I can act crazy without someone thinking I’m a psychopath, and even when he does think I’m a psychopath, he seems to like that about me.
Roman doesn’t make my heart foolish and he never drives the wild, wanton beast right out of me. He is perfect and safe and intellectual and deep.
Jeremy makes me want to torture someone.
Roman is the kind of man who holds doors open for women and never says tit or snatch and most definitely wouldn’t ever think of calling a woman a whore. He adores and worships his father.
Jeremy hates his father. They do not speak. He refers to his father as a bastard and a prick.
I decided to put him on hold for a while. I wanted to spend some time alone.
I wanted to cut my hair short. I wanted to spend a lot of money. I wanted to get high.
Instead, I went to a McDonald’s drive-thru and ordered some fries.
Chapter 3
I turned my calendar at work to August on the first of the month. I drew a little continent of Africa on the square and put a little stick man in it to represent Roman.
My boss came into my office and folded her arms at me. “If you’re bored, Doll, I’m sure I can find plenty for you to do. As it is, I gave you a whole list of things to take care of before the day is over.” She gave me a meaningful look.
“Oh, what?” I asked innocently. The list was long and uninteresting. “I was just, uh…keeping my calendar up to date.”
“Uh-huh,” she said, not convinced. “Now, listen. I’m going into a meeting with the rest of the partners and then I’m leaving straight for my lunch appointment. Can you try to remember to call on my cell if anything comes up?”
I nodded dutifully.
She looked at my finger with interest. “That’s not an engagement ring, is it?”
I hid my hand. I was actually surprised it had taken her so long to notice, but then again, Karen is very self-absorbed. “Oh, what? Yes.”
“Let me see it.” She took my hand and gave the ring a critical once-over. “Excellent clarity. From Tiffany?”
As if there is no other jewelry store in the entire fucking galaxy. But yes, it was from Tiffany. I still thought it was presumptuous of her to ask.
She nodded with approval as she let go of my hand. “This is the guy who lives back east, right? Not that other clown I see you with?”
“It’s the one back east. But he’s not there now. He had to leave the country for six months.”
She raised her eyebrows. “What exactly does he do again?”
The woman is fucking oblivious. “He’s with the relief organization. Remember? We did their fund-raising gala two years ago? You and I?”
“I remember now. Congratulations, then. That’s very exciting. We’ll have to take a lunch one day to lay out some ideas for your wedding.”
“Yes, we certainly will.”
She left me alone after that. I swiveled around to the window and stared out at the city. When I am way up high in this Century City skyscraper I pretend I’m somewhere else, like Chicago or Dallas or Atlanta. I thought my boss was probably having her period. When she’s on her period I keep my office door closed. Usually we get along okay, even though I think she’s an ass.
The dossier on Karen is this: Karen Brazington, executive partner of Charisma and guru of the event-planning industry in Los Angeles. Thirty-six years old. Once married to her UCLA sweetheart, a heart surgeon at Cedars-Sinai whom she left when he became married to his career, now divorced and not speaking except through their lawyers. Currently engaged to a William Morris talent agent named Sal Lefkowitz whom she met when he contacted her, by referral, to put together his niece’s bat mitzvah. Has lived in seriously high-rent Westside property all of her adult life and drives a new C-Class Mercedes in a fetching metallic silver. Wears her hair in a shaggy, uneven cut that she gets trimmed and highlighted every six weeks with nearly religious fanaticism. Drinks flavored martinis, listens to Sting and Norah Jones, coughs reflexively when exposed to cigarette smoke and watches all reality TV shows courtesy of TiVo.
Please don’t ever let this happen to me.
My job at Charisma is to be Karen’s personal and administrative assistant. On my résumé it says Event Coordinator. Karen gets to do all the fun work and the big planning. She gets to have the power lunches and wear the killer suits. I get to wear the killer suits, too, but only for show. My only real purpose there is to do everything Karen doesn’t want to do. My friends say I have a glamorous job. And in some ways it is a glamorous job. It is so glamorous that sometimes I want to jump out the window.
I started at Charisma right out of college. I walked into an employment agency with big plans to walk out with a corner office and a fancy title and sixty thou’ annually right off. Instead I walked out with a new job as the assistant to the office manager at Charisma. I think that literally translates to “slave” because all I did then was put away supplies in the copy room, wash the dishes in the kitchen and run errands for people. Karen noticed me and made me her assistant after four months of that mindless crap. She liked me. She said I was sharp. I think what it was really all about was that she liked the way I dressed. When I first started with her, she sat me down and said, “You and me, from now on, are a team. We need to look like a team, think like a team, take care of each other like team members. So far you’ve got the first part down.”
There are some perks. I get to go to premieres and their after parties. I get to talk to famous names on the phone. I get to go to the Emmys, the Golden Globes and the Academy Awards. But since I’m not really into all that shit, sometimes it’s really just like a whole lot of unpaid overtime.
There are also some quirks. Such as the long, endless days of trying to keep myself sane. Luckily