Unzipped Page 20

  But I know this—I can ask for help. As I cruise along the highway, I call Ransom and give him a basic overview. “I feel like I messed up because I was trying to help her with her show, and then, in the end, it all went belly up.”

  He sighs sympathetically. “Man, it sucks when your woman gets bad news and you don’t know what to do to help her.”

  I flinch. My woman? “She’s not my woman. Not yet, at least.”

  “What? You said you were into her.”

  “Yeah. Just a little bit.”

  “What’s the problem, then? Why isn’t she yours? Did she turn you down?”

  I wince, and this is the real eff-up. I didn’t tell her how I feel. “Um . . . she doesn’t know?”

  Ransom is quiet for a moment. But soon, he hoots. He hollers, and he laughs. “Hold on. Be right back.”

  A few seconds later, he clicks back, and he’s patched in the peanut gallery.

  “You asked us to help you,” Nash sing-songs.

  “And we’re helping you,” Gannon chimes in.

  “This is brotherly love and wisdom all at once,” Ransom adds.

  Then together, as if they’d practiced it, they shout: “You’re a dipshit!”

  I roll my eyes. “Thanks, dickheads. Can you see me flipping you the bird as I drive?”

  “Nope. Can’t make it out, since you’re in the doghouse for having no balls,” Nash says.

  “Do you need help finding them, so you can tell her you love her?” Gannon offers, in a mock-serious tone.

  “All right, fine. I get it. But it’s not that easy.”

  Ransom cuts in. “It absolutely is.”

  As I hit the blinker for Cassie’s exit, I privately disagree. It’s not easy at all because I’m not done. I need to finish my shit before I can move forward. I need to close the door on the past before I can reach for the future.

  “I need to go,” I say to the dickheads I love, since the GPS lady is telling me how to find Cassie.

  “Tell her about it,” Gannon croons, channeling Billy Joel.

  “Are you singing to me now?”

  “Sometimes it’s not the movies you need,” Nash says, and he’s right.

  But at this moment, I need to do something without a script and without lyrics. I pull onto the stretch of block that houses Cassie’s studio, park, cut the engine, and end the call.

  I head inside and ask the blonde pixie at the counter when Cassie’s done with class. She’s not the one who answers me.

  “I’m all done. How can I help?”

  I turn and set my eyes on the woman I thought I loved.

  27

  Finley

  I’m twenty-nine years old, I don’t have a job, I don’t have a man, and I’m crying on my father’s shoulder in a taco shop in the Mission District. The salsa here is so good it can induce tears of joy, but that’s not why I’m bawling.

  “What’s wrong, sweet pea?”

  “I’m a big, fat, stinking, stupid liar,” I say as Dad wraps his strong arms around me, petting my hair.

  “What do you mean? This isn’t the best taco shop in the city?”

  That’s where I told him to meet me for a late lunch, which has turned into an early dinner because my plane was three hours delayed. When I sank onto the seat across from him, an iced tea waiting and peppy Latin music playing, I let the tears fall. He’d wordlessly moved to my side and patiently waited for the worst to pass.

  When I’m done, I wipe my cheeks. “My show was cancelled.”

  He looks crestfallen. “Oh no, I’m so sorry.”

  I shake my head and take a deep, fortifying breath. I need to put on my big girl pants. “But that’s not the big issue.”

  “It’s not?”

  I brace myself for something I thought would be hard, but at the moment of truth, the words come remarkably easily. Because my dad doesn’t judge, and he’s never put me down. He doesn’t treat me like I’m second or third best. I can tell him, and he won’t be disappointed in me. He’ll be disappointed with me.

  “It’s been hanging on by a thread for weeks, Dad.”

  He shoots me a confused look. “It has? I thought they loved it.”

  “The ratings suck, it’s been on the fence, and I didn’t want to tell you how close it was to being canceled.”

  “Why not?” he asks so gently, so sweetly, that I know I should have told him sooner.

  “Because you were finally happy. Or at least you weren’t sad,” I say, sniffling.

  He hands me a tissue, and I realize he has a packet in his messenger bag for his trip. “Do you have allergies?”

  “No, I have a daughter who’s sad, so I stocked up.”

  I smile at that, at how well he knows me, at how good he is at being my dad. “I’ve been a bad daughter.”

  He scoffs. “Never. You’ve never been a bad kid.” He tucks a finger under my chin. “And I want you to know you can tell me when things aren’t perfect. You can lean on me when you’re feeling down or when you need anything at all. I’m so lucky you’ve helped me through a tough time. I don’t know what I’d have done without you, but it’s not your job to worry about me.” He taps his chest. “It’s mine to worry about you.”

  “But I do worry about you. You miss her so much,” I say, my voice breaking for him, for his still-broken heart.

  “I do, but I’m going to be fine. I have Mister Dog, and my kids and my friends and all the ballparks.” He offers a sympathetic smile. “And I know you weren’t that close with your mom. I know you had a complicated relationship with her. But she was hard on you because she was worried life would be too tough if you chose a creative career.”

  I scoff. “It hasn’t been easy.”

  “Maybe she didn’t always show it in the best of ways, or at all. But I feel certain she’d be proud of you. As proud as I am.”

  My throat hitches. I love him. I love my dad so much, and with his words, he makes it easier for me to let go of some of the lingering hurt over my mom. “Thank you.”

  “Now tell me about the show and what happened.”

  I take a deep breath. This is going to require food fortification. Good thing this really is the best taco shop in the city.

  Over nachos and salsa and iced tea, I tell him how my show unraveled. I tell him everything I didn’t say before. He pats my hand, listens, and offers a sympathetic ear. He does what he has always done. He supports me.

  “I should have told you sooner.”

  “Yes, you should have. But I’m glad you’re telling me now.”

  “Me too.” I take a drink of the iced tea. “What do I do now?”

  “You cry if you want. You talk to me or to Christine. And you go back to the drawing board. You’ve tucked some money away, you’re not going to starve, and you’re a damn good comedy writer. You’ll write another show for another network. I don’t doubt it.”

  He’s always believed in me, and it’s the most wonderful feeling in the world. The only feeling better than this is . . .

  I dismiss the thought.

  But I can’t, because my father poses another question. “Now, what does your friend think?”

  I furrow my brow. “Christine?”

  He shakes his head. “The guy you’re in love with.”

  My jaw comes unhinged and lands on the tile floor of the taco shop. I pick it up and ask, “How do you know that?”

  “It was kind of obvious when you left on a road trip with him,” he says, giving me an I-know-these-things smile.

  “Was it?”

  “Completely.”

  I sigh heavily. “He was supportive. He encouraged me. He offered to help.”

  “Sounds like he’s in love with you too.”

  I sit bolt upright. Is he? Does Tom feel the same?

  I cycle back, replaying the last few days, starting with the way he invited me on the road trip, how hard he tried to ask in just the right way. I flash back to the morning he picked me up wearing a new shirt he thought was cool.
A shirt he probably wanted me to like.

  I flip ahead to the drive, to the snacks he picked and the playlist he made. The gift he made that was utterly perfect.

  He listened to me. He learned all the things I liked.

  He didn’t sledgehammer his way through anything. He paid attention to everything.

  In Santa Cruz on the boardwalk, we walked and talked. At the artichoke diner, he asked about my exes. He told me the guy who said I chatted too much was wrong. Tom likes talking with me, and we talk about every single thing.

  That’s how we’ve come to know each other. How he knew exactly what to do to impress me—finding the couple to play along with the Spot-the-Tropes game.

  My heart jitterbugs around in my chest as I recall each thing with crystal clarity—moments that led to the way I feel now, to how we touch, to the words he said the last night in the hotel room.

  The best thing that’s ever happened to me was you being at that window.

  My whole body warms at the memory of those words, and I’m floating.

  Because it’s the same for me.

  The best thing that’s ever happened to me was him being at the window, singing badly on my front lawn. It’s the best thing because I fell in love with someone who loves me for me.

  It doesn’t matter that I’m twenty-nine and unemployed. It doesn’t matter that he hasn’t said he loves me yet. None of that matters. I love that man, even if a week ago he thought he wanted someone else.

  I’m pretty sure he wants me now.

  But I’m 100 percent positive I want him, and that’s why I need to fight like hell to win him.

  God, I love the power of nachos, a good cry, and a great father to lean on. Now all I need to do is figure out how to make Tom mine.

  28

  Tom

  Her ponytail still bounces. Her nose is still tiny. Her eyes are still green.

  She’s still the kind, thoughtful girl, and I know that too, because she smiles at me then holds her arms out wide. “Kyler Sutcliffe, what on earth are you doing here? It’s so great to see you.”

  She strides over to me on bare feet and pulls me in for an embrace in the center of her studio lobby, surrounded by candles and meditation books.

  “Good to see you too,” I say, relieved that she’s not tossing incense or yoga bricks in my direction.

  She hugs hard and purposefully, and I feel nothing romantic, nothing physical.

  It’s merely a hug from an old friend. It’s not a contact high from an old lover, and I honestly didn’t think it would be. But I like the confirmation that there’s nothing here. How could there be when my heart belongs to someone else?

  When we separate, Cassie smiles and waits.

  The greeting is over, and it’s my turn to take care of business.

  I’m nervous, but not. I’m excited, but not. Mostly, I’m determined to fix a mistake and move on.

  I square my shoulders. “Any chance we could speak privately someplace?”

  “Sure, I have a minute between classes.” She guides me to one of her studios and spreads out a mat on the floor for me. I sit cross-legged on it. She pretzels herself into a bendy position. “So . . . I can only assume you’re here since the Honey Sticks got back together.”

  I laugh, glad the tension is eased. “But of course.” I clear my throat. “So, listen. I’ve been taking stock of some things lately and assessing my life,” I say, then I hear how it comes out, and I sound like a douche. If I were listening to me, I’d tell myself to be straightforward. “Let me start over. I was a dick when we broke up. I was a dick after we slept together. I was a stupid twenty-year-old, and I didn’t have a clue, so I sent that dumb text and you were right to dump me and I didn’t realize it till a few days ago, so I came to say I’m sorry.”

  Her face is impassive at first, her eyes narrowed, but the wheels are turning. Then she laughs lightly. “That’s what you wanted to say? You’re sorry?”

  “Yes, I was an ass, and I deserved to be dumped.”

  She laughs, patting my knee. “You were an ass, but I forgave you long ago, and I swear I’m all good now.”

  “But you said that thing on a blog about a bad relationship?”

  “My blog? I wrote that years ago. I was sad and frustrated, and I didn’t like how it ended. But I moved on. I’m so happy now, and I feel good about myself. I love my life and my practice and my friendships. I also think it’s amazing you came to say what you said to me. It’s rare. So few people do, and I appreciate it. But you don’t have to worry. Now, tell me, what are you up to?”

  And that’s it. That’s all. It’s easy.

  I’ve said my piece, and the burden’s been lifted.

  I don’t need to hold on to it anymore, but I’m so glad I made my way down here. It was the right thing to do. Cassie’s not holding a grudge, and I learned a valuable lesson. Don’t retreat. Speak your mind with kindness and grace.

  Be a man.

  And that’s exactly what I should do with Finley.

  Answering Cassie’s question, I tell her what I’ve been up to, including Finley and including the fateful night with the boom box outside Cassie’s Airbnb property.

  She laughs and smiles and whistles, and then she shakes her head. “She sounds fantastic.”

  “She is. She’s incredible. It’s crazy and random, but it’s perfect in its own way too.”

  “You need to do whatever it takes to keep her, Kyler,” she says, her tone serious.

  “I do.”

  “She’s a winner. A woman who’d do that for you? Who’d help you win someone else? She’s the real deal.”

  “She definitely is.”

  She tilts her head to the side as if considering. “If you really want to move on, you ought to do things differently starting now. Tell her you love her before it’s too late. Don’t let her slip away.”

  I jump up. “Shit, you’re right. You’re absolutely right.”

  It’s When Harry Met Sally. When you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with someone, you want the rest of your life to start right now.

  And I know how to do it. It’s not rocket science. It’s not a script. It’s listening. Finley told me how to do it herself the first night we went to dinner.

  Keep it simple. Knock on her door. Send her a note. Heck, send her flowers and ask her if she’d like to go out . . . Speak from the heart, not a script.

  Now all I need is to get out of town.

  29

  Finley

  If this were a movie, I’d gather the troops, scurry across San Francisco in a tiny car, shout “go, go, go” at the traffic lights, and race breathlessly to the finish line, praying the clock hadn’t run out.

  But this is real life. My needs are simple. Office supplies and information. Office supplies are easy. Information is hard. Searching on my phone, I scan my options, frustration digging in at the endless list of possibilities.

  I might as well throw a dart to pin the tail on the donkey.

  “You could just ask,” my dad suggests as we turn into the parking lot near the airport.

  I scoff at him, rolling my eyes dramatically. “What’s the fun in that?”

  “Getting an answer and doing this properly,” he suggests, deadpan.

  “Fine,” I grumble.

  He is right, so I text Tom and ask what time he expects to arrive. But he doesn’t reply. Is he in the air already? Is he ignoring me? Is he with Cassie?

  My dad leaves his car in off-site parking so he can pick it up in a week when he returns, and we grab a shuttle bus to the terminal. I give him a hug at security and wave as he weaves through the checkpoint.

  Then I turn on my heel and get to work on the next thing I need to do.

  I’m jobless, but I’m no longer hopeless.

  30

  Tom

  As I board the plane in San Diego, I calculate the time it’ll take me to drive to Hope Falls. My car is at my house in the city. I can Uber over to Fillmore Street and
then cruise along the highway heading north into wine country. It’s 5:05 now. I land at 7:15. I’ll be in my car by 7:50, and I could be at her house by about 9:20.

  I do need to pick up flowers, but I reason I can grab some at the airport, and I don’t think Finley will mind if I bring her airport flowers. She doesn’t want a big production anyway. I know what she wants. She wants my heart, and she has it, absolutely. All I have to do is tell her.

  But I figure I should probably start by letting her know I’m on my way. She’ll appreciate the heads-up, and I don’t want to leave anything to chance.

  I find my seat in the eighth row, stuff my bag in the overhead bin, and open my text messages to start one to her.

  A burst of excitement shoots off in my chest when I find a note from her. It’s the simplest question, but hope rises in me that maybe we’re on the same page.

  Finley: When do you arrive?

  I write back instantly, but she doesn’t reply—not for the next twenty minutes as the rest of the passengers board, not as we taxi, and not as we finally start to take off. At last, I turn my phone to airplane mode and hope I see her on the other side of the flight.

  31

  Finley

  Why didn’t he write back? Did he fall back in love with Cassie?

  I cringe at that thought and howl at the moon.

  But in my heart of hearts, I know he didn’t fall in love with Cassie. He didn’t go to San Diego to reconnect with her. He went there to earn a clean slate. I hope he has it. But I hope he sees my message too.

  I pace through the terminal, and my mind whirs. Maybe I’ll write about something like this for a new series. Maybe I’ll do it for the Web. I’ll get in touch with everyone I’ve worked with in the past. I’ll reconnect with Kiss and Tell. I’ll reach out to the late-night shows I’ve worked on. I’ll cast a wide net. Bruce wasn’t my only contact, and LGO isn’t the only network familiar with my work.