Let's Try This Again Page 6

  To be honest, I didn’t even want my friends to be here—seeing them in the rearview would be way too much for me (symbolically). But they weren’t budging on seeing me off, so we compromised on them coming the day of but leaving before I actually drove away.

  Now we were wrapped up in one another, all three of us crying and snotting and saying “I love you,” and knowing that even though there was no reason to be scared that anything would change between us, everything would change around us. From this point forward life was going to be different—we wouldn’t live in the same zip code, we wouldn’t know all of each others’ friends, we wouldn’t drink at the same bars and then fall asleep in the same beds every weekend.

  The tears and heavy breathing slowed, and I could sense it was coming to an end. The weight of this goodbye was getting way too heavy, and I hadn’t been to the gym in a couple weeks (cause of all the sex and then all the lack of sex and then all the crying).

  “We’re so proud of you,” Molly said, her eyes still full of tears but a smile on her face. She petted my hair and pulled me in close again.

  “We’ll miss you every second.” Ellie hugged me from behind. And then they both let go, way too soon. There would never be anyone else like them in my life; I wouldn’t ever want there to be.

  I couldn’t watch them leave, so I went inside and got a glass of water to try and calm down. Now I was alone. Now I could leave any time I wanted. The freedom I had wanted, probably since my first day of high school—fuck, maybe since my first day of middle school—I was an angsty child—was mine. And now, leaving was the last thing I wanted to do. But I grabbed the last of my stuff and headed back out to my car.

  As I put the final bag into my trunk and reached up to shut the door, I heard—“Got time for one more goodbye?”

  I wanted to crawl into my trunk and shut myself inside. “Isaac …I don’t.”

  “You don’t. Or you don’t want to?”

  “Does it really fucking matter?” The sentence itself was more aggressive than my tone. I didn’t have the energy to be a bitch. I turned around, and he looked beautiful, and I probably looked like a crack head on her fourth day of withdrawal. This was how he was going to remember me. Good. Fucking. Great.

  “I just wanted to see you before you left. I thought…”

  “You thought wrong.” Huh. Turns out I had enough energy after all.

  He didn’t seem discouraged, though. He even smiled a little, his eyes downcast, like he didn’t want me to see.

  “I just wanted to tell you that I’m happy for you. And I think you’re doing the right thing.”

  “Thank you, your approval means so much to me.”

  “Can you lay off the sass for one second? I want to tell you I miss you,” he spit out. “I will miss you,” he quickly corrected.

  That’s how I realized that “it’s over” or “I hate you” aren’t the worst things to hear from someone you loved. Someone you love. Nothing is more painful, more excruciatingly painful than “I miss you.” Cause it says everything and changes absolutely nothing.

  I didn’t say anything back, but I think we both knew what I might’ve said if it would’ve made any difference. I already knew it wouldn’t. It was like scratching a mosquito bite, even though you know that the two tiny seconds of relief you get will only be followed by an itch that is five times worse than it was when you gave in. If I kept doing this, I would just get itchier and itchier until the mosquito bite killed me. I didn’t want to be itchy anymore. So I was trying this new thing where I’d only have to learn a lesson about three times (tops). I just nodded politely as he turned and walked back to his car. He left. That was it.

  I wouldn’t let myself cry this time. I just threw my door open and got into my car, ready to start my life. My life without sadness and heartbreak and pizza places that make me think of him holding my hand that first time. And then, in my passenger seat, I saw something folded up with a note on top.

  For all your new dreams –

  It was a pillowcase.

  So then I let myself cry.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  New Life: Day One

  I got to California in one piece. I didn’t get raped at any of the motels I stopped at in bumfuck Missouri or west bumfuck Oklahoma or north bumfuck Texas, which was (and remains to this day) my number one fear. And since there is an actual man selling RVs in the Midwest with the name Jim Rapey, I would say that this fear is valid. Jim. Fucking. Rapey. Selling what are essentially supersized rape vans.

  That is the most I took away from my cross-country trip. I had found roommates through the guy trying to help me find a job, so I had a place to go when I got there. It was a cute little house with a cute little yard and cute little kids running around. It was hard to not be happy when I got there, which I needed, considering the way the trip had started, with Jim Rapey in the middle there, and my legs now numb from driving for the past eight days. I didn’t know what my roommates were going to be like, if we were going to get along or even be able to tolerate each other. It’s so hard to meet new people when you feel like you already have the best kind of people in your life. It’s like you automatically put up a guard ‘cause it’s, like, “Go ahead, try and try to be better than the friends I already have. I dare you.”

  But the second I walked into the house, I knew things were going to go well.

  Trevor was gay, which I had not previously known, and made it immediately apparent in his frilly pink apron, buzzing around the kitchen and cooking. It wasn’t the apron that tipped me off, though; it was him running up to hug me the second I got there screaming, “I’m not this gay, I swear! This is not my apron!”

  Trevor pulled the neck loose, revealing a Britney Spears concert t-shirt stretched a little too tight over a slightly chubby belly. I hugged him back, surprised at how comfortable and homey he made me feel right away. “My apron is in the wash. It’s blue,” he told me. He had an apron, and that was all I needed to know. He was adorable, with sandy blonde hair and tan skin behind thick-rimmed, black glasses that made him look the quintessential California hipster. I loved Trevor at first sight.

  “That is not his apron, but he is really that gay. At least that’s what I hear coming from his room every weekend.” She was a ball of energy hurling herself at me—both of them really knew how to make a girl feel welcome. Skylar was this little nugget of love; she obviously made up for her petite stature with a huge personality. Her wild brown hair flew as she scooped me up in a bear hug, and as she put me down, she stared into my eyes with her own baby blues like she could see right into my soul. And for some reason that comforted me rather than freaked me out.

  “We are so happy you’re finally here! I’m making chicken parm in your honor…I stalked your Facebook and saw it was your favorite meal. But it’s spaghetti squash instead of spaghetti because it’s LA, and no one eats carbs here. Is pasta a carb?” Trevor waved a spoon at me.

  Okay, so he was the cutest human alive because he stalked the way I did and quoted Mean Girls in the same breath. Fucking obsessed with him was an understatement. It took me this long to realize I had not said a word yet. “I’m so happy to be here! And I’m so happy you guys aren’t Craigslist murderers.” They laughed. I relaxed.

  “We’re a little overbearing but definitely not killers. Unless you need someone killed, and then we can work something out,” Skylar joked.

  “Ugh, I could think of a few.” I laughed halfheartedly.

  “Fantastic, we can talk about it over this.” She held up two gigantic bottles of wine. “Roomie bonding!”

  Trevor seasoned a sauce simmering on the stove as Skylar pulled down wine glasses. This was going to work out.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Two Weeks Into My New Life

  While I absolutely loved my roommates, it was a hard adjustment to the fabulous life that is La La Land. I was still heartbroken and thinking about Isaac all the time. I missed my friends. I’d wake up from dreams about home or being lo
ved by the one whom I wished would love me and then I’d cry into my pillows. And I had no job yet, so there was a lot of time to nap and wake up like that.

  In movies there’s always a chase (and like any other self-respecting girl in the 21st century I base all my romantic expectations on film). There’s a race to the finish line to get the girl or the guy because you finally realized in the blink of an eye or by the helpful words of a kindly, wise stranger on a park bench, that this is the person for you. A car speeds by or a plane lifts off the ground and everyone knows that soon enough the two will be together forever.

  Let me tell you why this doesn’t happen in real life.

  First of all, what happens if the other person lets you the fuck down, (which happens more often than not, get serious). You end up standing at an airport gate or even worse outside the goddamn front door, alone and heartbroken and probably broke from either a last minute plane ticket or filling your gas tank. Then, time is a real thing in real life. Driving somewhere takes a while. Flying somewhere takes a while. During those whiles, people have time to doubt their decisions. They have time to rethink, to overanalyze. They have time to change their minds. I don’t know if Isaac ever sat at an airport, trying to get to California to sweep me off my feet. Sometimes I like to think he did; that, if even just for a moment, he was undeniably convinced that I was the only person in this whole stupid fucking world that he could stand to think about a forever with.

  But the daydream ends because if he had, he must’ve rethought it. He wouldn’t ever really get on the plane.

  And I have to say I wasn’t really trying my hardest to get over Isaac. When I’d call Molly and Ellie, I’d ask what was new and silently pray they would give me an update on him, that they had seen him crying at a local bar or heard he had become a shut-in, knowing his heart was too broken, and he would never love again. They never said either of those things – they never said anything about him.

  I bruise like a peach, and so, inevitably, every time I have sex I wake up freckled with little blue and purple splotches. They’re on my arm where he had playfully bitten me, on the back of my shin where he’d pushed up, and I had a particularly dark one on the side of my knee where his thumb had pressed down on my scrunched up leg.

  Throughout my road trip, I’d lie in the hotel beds and catch a glimpse of it-remembering where it’d come from, tracing it. A few weeks after I got to California, it faded from brown to yellow to gone, and it felt like I was driving away from home all over again. There was nothing left that connected my body to his. The bruise was as good as his hand still on my skin, and when it melted back into me, he felt farther away than ever.

  I still had his Netflix password, which I used to use all the time. Now, it would be weird if he went into his account and saw that someone had just watched Love, Actually or something. He would know it was me. So, instead of just accepting this new Netflix-less world I’d propelled myself into, I did something even weirder than letting him see that. I just watched whatever he had watched last. One, we had pretty similar tastes so they weren’t always terrible choices like Star Trek: Into Darkness (at least there was Chris Pines) or the Chipotle documentary (at least there was food porn) and two, it made me feel like we were still sitting on the couch at his place, snuggled up and watching together.

  I’M A SICK FREAK. I TOTALLY OWN THIS.

  Then one day Trevor caught me crying and watching Pineapple Express—busted.

  “What…the fuck…are you crying about? Seth Rogen is fine; he’s so successful that i t’s actually okay he looks like the trolls from Frozen.”

  “Sdofiuweralkdfjasdf,” I sniffled out. “Fsldkjasdriudaskldjfasdfj.”

  “Oh, doll, this isn’t about Seth Rogen. Come on,” Trevor took me by the hand and dragged me out of the house and down to the bar on the corner.

  Three margaritas (each) deep, the whole thing came spilling out. The beginning of Isaac and the end. The pillowcase. The goddamn fucking pillowcase. That I was sleeping on every night. Trevor just sat and listened, nodding or rolling his eyes whenever necessary. After I finished the story and took the last sip of my current and tear-spiked marg, he still didn’t say anything.

  “Wow. No one’s ever not tried to console me when I’m upset before. Is that a sassy gay thing?” I broke the silence.

  “It’s just that nothing I say will change anything about the way you feel.” He gave me a gentle smile. “You’re still going to be sad. You’re still going to want him. For now. I know that’ll pass, but you know that, too. I think you’re scared of letting him go, letting yourself get over it because that means he’s really gone. If you get over it, he’ll have nothing to go back to, Josie. You’re the one that left.” He sipped through his straw as if he hadn’t just said one of the most profound things I’d ever been told.

  I was the one in control of how I felt. That’s right.

  “But no matter how much everything I just said is true,” Trevor patted his own shoulder, getting a smile out of me, “it doesn’t fix the hurt. It is so hard to feel like you’re meant for someone who doesn’t want to be meant for you. Or someone that the universe doesn’t want you to be meant for.” He shook his head. “You can’t keep thinking that because he went from loving you to not loving you that he can go back,” he continued. “He changed his mind. Even if he could go back, you’ll always know there was a time when he chose not to love you.” And because I had never said that Isaac loved me or had told me he didn’t anymore, I realized now that he wasn’t really talking about me.

  I didn’t ask, and he wasn’t telling. Though he had said I had all the power to let someone go, I could tell it wasn’t his strong suit – that wasn’t fresh pain in his eyes. So I grabbed his hand, and we drank tequila and silently toasted all the idiots that decided they weren’t meant for us. When we went home, Trevor made me log out of Isaac’s Netflix account and throw the pillowcase away. And because I was drunk enough, I did it.

  CHAPTER TEN

  One Month In

  The best thing that could’ve ever happened finally happened a week later. The guy who was a friend through people I had gone to college with finally came through with a job.

  And it was sick.

  Josh (the guy) e-mailed me out of the blue:

  Hey Josie!

  Hope you’re adjusting to life on the west coast well. I don’t know if you’ve already had luck with the job search yet, but I have a lead if you’re interested. Send me your résumé again?

  Josh

  So not thinking much of it, I sent my résumé to him and figured I probably wouldn’t hear anything for a while. But two hours later I got another e-mail from an unknown address.

  Josie –

  I got your information from Josh Porter. I don’t know how well he informed you about the job we’re looking to fill, but Carter Coleman is looking for a personal assistant. We’d love to have you come in for an interview this week. Let me know what day would work for you.

  Max Simon

  Let me just say, for anyone who has been living under a fucking rock for twenty-five years, that Carter Coleman was a member of a huge boy band—From the Boys—that broke up just before the fall of the popularity of boy bands in general (not saying this is because they broke up but take a hard look at those facts). He was, like, the face of the band. I hadn’t heard his name in a long time, but when I was twelve, fuck, did I love From the Boys. If you could’ve told me then that I would be up for a job as Carter Coleman’s personal assistant one day, I would’ve pissed my pants and screamed until I passed out. But luckily I was more in love with the bad boy of the group—the tattooed and often rehab’d Marcus Holt. (Sidenote—do you ever wonder if the men you idolized as a tween were a good indicator of the type of guys you’d go for as you grew up? I would have been petrified if I was my mother.)

  When I read the e-mail I pretty much reacted how I would’ve at twelve. Then I called Molly and Ellie.

  “THIS IS IT! THIS IS WHERE IT HAPPEN
S!” Ellie squealed.

  “WE’RE GONNA BE FAMOUS!” Molly screamed. I had to remind them that I was simply applying for the job; I didn’t have it yet. That seemed like a moot point to them.

  When Trevor and Skylar got home it was more of the same. I was doing laundry as I told them, and Skylar all but knocked the basket out of my hand. “Throw all your clothes out the window – you’ll be able to buy new ones courtesy of Carter fucking Coleman!”

  It wasn’t until I was lying in bed that night that I asked myself what Carter Coleman really needed an assistant for. As far as I knew, he hadn’t really done anything after From the Boys broke up ten years ago. He tried to go solo, but it wasn’t that successful. I think he toured with Shakira for a short time.

  ***

  When I went in for an interview the next morning, I was expecting to meet him, obviously. I had tripled up on deodorant because I was so nervous about it—being face-to-face with one of the guys whose lyrics were responsible for my sexual awakening (if I’m being honest). But it was just his manager, Max, that I met with. It was a pretty straight-forward interview; I didn’t know how much experience personal assistants usually have, but I figured more than me. I answered the questions well, but I knew the only reason they were meeting with me was because I had an in. I had convinced myself that I hadn’t gotten the job by the time I walked out.

  So when I got the phone call an hour later that I did get the job, I did pretty much what twelve-year old me would have expected.

  I absolutely peed a little.

  At the interview, Max had explained how Carter was basically trying to revamp his music.

  “It’s not easy to go from being recognized as one of the most musically talented artists on the charts to a guy playing guitar alone in his living room,” Max told me at the interview. “Carter is as much a storyteller as he is a musician. He’s lived more, been through more, so he thinks now is the right time to start sharing those stories with the public again.” Basically, Carter felt washed up and wanted a new image – a fresh start.