Been There, Married That, page 22
“Of course,” I said, fighting the urge to throw up.
“The fucking LAPD chief made the call to have me arrested,” Fin said. “Like I’m some kind of terrorist. What the hell.”
“This is LA,” I said. “Everyone wants to be a star, even the police chief.”
“Those people are morons. I’ll tell you what, though. When I get out of here—”
“Fin.”
“I always get mine back,” Fin said. “Don’t you worry.”
Reader? I was worried.
* * *
“I’ve seen a lot of dirty tricks. I’ve even seen attempted murder, but this is a first,” Anne said when I called her to tell her the chief of police of the second-largest city in the United States had ordered my sister arrested over …
A clock?
“What’s my move?” I asked.
“Post bail, if you can,” she said. “We wait it out, see what their move is. I have a feeling that’s why Ulger called me this morning.”
“What do they want?”
“My guess is they’re going to use the arrest”—she paused—“as leverage.”
“For me to leave the house?”
“For full custody.”
I felt my stomach drop.
“That can’t be true!” I said. “Trevor doesn’t want full custody.”
“No, he doesn’t want full custody,” she said. “He wants to win.”
* * *
I didn’t want to leave Pep in the dead zone, given that I didn’t know how much time we had left together, but I had to be at Book Soup on Sunset by 7:00, which meant I had to leave the house by yesterday.
Sorry. Traffic joke.
Most of the time, at book signings, you’ll get a few people marooned in a sea of folding chairs. The nice lady who works behind the counter, her reading glasses attached to a chain around her neck, will grab a chair. Maybe an old suitor will show up, or a girl you knew (vaguely) from high school geometry class.
My dad was waiting outside the bookstore when I arrived, along with Shu, who was dressed like she was heading to a premiere for a vampire movie.
“Honey, you remember Shu?”
“Of course,” I said. “Five languages—four and a half more than I speak—”
“I want to bring her by the house afterward,” he said.
I thought about her recent shoplifting arrest.
“Sure,” I said. “Why not?”
* * *
I spied him immediately. He’s hard to miss. Every novelist of any repute, ill or otherwise, has a stalker. Mine showed up to every book signing I’d had in LA since my first novel was published—never said a word, never bought a book, never even approached me. He just sat in the middle of the middle row, right in my sightline. Like I could ever miss him. Dressed head to toe in silver, black gloves to his elbows, jet-black, greasy hair falling past his shoulders.
I stopped myself from waving like he was an old friend. Still, his presence felt stabilizing—proof that I was still stalkable. I hadn’t yet disappeared.
Stalker stared me down as I began to power through my intro schtick.
I raised my hand.
“Hi, my name is Agnes Murphy,” I said. “Nash. For now. And I’m a recovering writer.”
That got a few titters. The crowd had turned out to be a respectable size. There were even a few people standing in back, confined by tall bookshelves. I wondered how many would actually buy my book. It didn’t help that I encouraged readers to save their money (especially in cities battered by recession) and buy the paperback version or check it out at the library.
A great salesman I am not. I’m a person who wrestled with words.
And often lost.
“Thanks for leaving the comforts of home and Netflix tonight,” I said. “There’re more people here than I’d expected. I hope you guys didn’t get the wrong date. I mean, you do know I’m not reading from Fifty Shades of Dick?”
Laughs because they A) liked me, or B) were actually nervous about getting the wrong date.
“I’m reading the acknowledgments first, because my dad is in the audience, and if I read his name, he might get laid tonight.”
Laughs. Except for Stalker. The Silver Prince of Darkness glowered.
“So let’s get started,” I said. “Feel free to check your Facebook or Twitter or swipe right while I read. The fewer people listening, the more I feel at home.”
I started reading. Taking a breath between sentences. Reminding myself to slow down.
Slow down, Agnes.
Skipping parts here and there that felt clunky. (Why didn’t I read this out loud after writing and rewriting and rewriting and rewriting? Why didn’t the editor, you know, edit?)
I’d gone over these passages so many times while writing and rewriting (apparently not editing), my mind started to wander …
My sister’s in jail. Trevor called the chief of police and had her arrested.
The chief of police. The guy who runs the city.
I kept reading.
Choose your enemies wisely, right? Can’t say that I have—
I took a deep breath.
Don’t think about the phone calls with Anne.
I shivered. Even though the room suddenly felt hot. Stifling.
Didn’t this place have air-conditioning?
I was cold.
Palms sweaty.
Mom’s spaghetti.
My breathing felt labored, like Bill O’Reilly making a midnight phone call.
Breathe. Slow down.
Anne had called me back again, minutes later. Trevor had filed for an emergency hearing.
“He’s doing it. He’s going for full custody.”
“No, don’t panic.”
Why did I have this sister?
“Yes, it happens.”
Why me?
“No, it probably won’t happen.”
What did I do to deserve this?
Oh. Shit. What paragraph am I on?
I skipped through pages. The words wiggling and dancing, dropping off the page. Where were they going?
“But this is divorce court. I don’t have a crystal ball.”
Come back, words.
I’m going to lose Pep. I’m going to lose my child.
Breathe.
I have so much more to teach her. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t know how to use a house key—
Help. Help me—
Or to kick an attacker in the shin, not the nuts—
I’m in a tunnel. All is dark. Wind blows my hair back.
My body relaxed. My breathing steadied.
This is what I imagine the luge felt like. I’m not bad at this, I always thought the luge was my sport—
I blinked. My eyes opened to thirty sets of eyes staring down at me. The back of my head felt sore.
“Ow,” I said. Someone was holding my hand.
It felt nice.
Was I in a dream? Am I not the 2020 hope of Luge Nation?
A young face, honey-almond skin, soft hazel eyes bracketed by heavy glasses, a pierced septum; he was talking. (Why did he pierce his beautiful septum?)
“Agnes?” he asked. “Hey, are you okay?”
I chewed my lip.
“Yes?” I said. “Other than my head—”
“The kid’s always been a fainter.” Dad’s voice. His head floating above me. A striking resemblance to Paul Newman. The crystalline-blue eyes that will never be passed down. When he goes, they are gone.
“She’ll be all right,” he said. “Right, kiddo?”
I blinked. My legs felt clammy. I reached down.
“Was I dreaming?” I asked as someone helped me sit up. I stared down at my jeans. Between my legs, my pants were moist, clammy tentacles unfurling.
“You think you’ll be cool to sign?” the Book Soup rep asked.
“What happened?” I whispered, spreading my hands to hide the wet spot.
“Your mouth was opening and closing,” he said, pantomiming a hungry guppy. “No sound was coming out. Thought it might be your mic. Then you just totally … crumbled. You hit your head. It was amazing!”
Liz’s face emerged. Glass of water in her hand. “Have you eaten today?” she asked.
“Just my pride,” I said. Then, “Did I pee myself?”
“Your water bottle landed in your lap.”
“Oh, thank God,” I said. “Are you sure?”
Liz and my dad and the rep pulled me up to standing. I heard applause. My reading was over. I scanned the room.
My stalker had vanished, off to find more suitable prey. Who could blame him?
* * *
The line was shrinking as I signed books, and the buyers and I pretended I hadn’t collapsed and wet my pants in front of them. With a water bottle. But still.
“I’m fine,” I said to Liz. I signed, waving my other hand over my pants to dry them, the water stain retreating so it looked like my bladder merely dribbled.
“Trevor’s taking Pep. He had Fin arrested. But everything’s fine. I’ll get through this. I’m the oak, right?”
“Oaks burn down,” she said. “Oaks snap. Be the willow. Bent but unbroken.”
“I can’t be a willow,” I said. “Look at me. Peasant stock.”
“Can you make it out to Tracy?” asked a woman with Tootsie Roll bangs and the aggressively lined and glossed smile of a former teen beauty queen.
I paid attention to the proper spelling of Tracie as opposed to Tracy as opposed to Tracey. I felt both lucky to be here and like a dinosaur. Books—for how much longer? We can’t compete against Candy Crush. Or Pokémon.
Or porn.
“My husband divorced me last year,” she said, grabbing my hand. “It’s been tough—he left me and the kids—but we’re fine. We’re going to make it.”
Lip stain on her eyetooth. Her hand squeezing mine. My fingers going numb.
“I’m so sorry,” I said.
“No,” she said, whipping her blond hair. “No, no, no. We’re fine.” Her lower lip started to shake, and she let me go. “Selfie?”
I smiled, and I wanted to cry.
“How’s the dead zone?” the next person in line asked.
I looked up. Gio. The black leather jacket. The wide smile. Those soft eyes.
“On its last breath,” I said.
“Sign this and let’s grab something to eat,” he said.
Our fingertips touched.
I’m not going to say it felt like sex.
(Reader: It felt like sex.)
* * *
My dad was in heaven. Gio Metz and Shu (and, incidentally, me, his daughter) eating pasta and clams at Dan Tana’s.
Dad was vying for captain of Team Gio; Gio was old-school. Gio ate. Gio drank. Gio listened. Gio laughed hard and loud.
Gio could get Dad into film premieres.
My dad and I argued over who would drive Gio back to his hotel after dinner. I won. I wanted to fill up on Gio’s laugh before I headed into the dead zone.
I parked outside his hotel on the Strip.
“Did you hear what happened?” I asked. “At the signing.”
“You passed out,” he said, his fingers interlaced over his stomach. “I was outside, watching you.”
“Great,” I said. “I needed a new stalker. I lost mine tonight.”
“I married one of my stalkers,” Gio said. “Agnes, you don’t need someone to push you down. You need someone to catch you.”
He formed a net with his fingers together.
“Fall into me. I’ll give you a soft landing,” he said and patted his belly.
A group of girls, all hair and smiles and giggles, held each other up as they stumbled across Sunset toward the Rainbow.
“I’m no knight in shining armor,” Gio continued. “I’m not even sure they make armor in my size.”
“How about my knight in rumpled khaki?”
He put his warm hands on my face and drew me in for a kiss.
Afterward, I watched the world’s best kisser step into his hotel before checking my phone.
Eighteen missed calls. One hundred and twenty-two Google Alerts.
Dear God, not Google Alerts.
“I’m the oak,” I said to myself, taking a deep breath. “No, I’m the willow. Oh, God, which fucking tree am I?”
* * *
Oh, internet, you sly dog. Someone had downloaded the video of me fainting, then pissing myself. Except I hadn’t pissed myself.
I’m almost positive.
Gabriela was at the house.
“It’s okay, missus,” she said. “I pee myself at my wedding.”
“I didn’t—”
“It’s okay, missus,” she said.
“Thank you,” I said.
I sat in my bathroom in front of the tray of a thousand creams. The bathtub yawned. You gonna come in or you just gonna sit there? I’d just had the best kiss of my life on what was shaping up to be the worst night.
My phone flashed. More alerts. Morse code for you’re fucked.
It buzzed. “Are you okay?” Liz asked.
“I’m viral,” I said. “I’m sick with TMZ, Perez Hilton, and Bossip fever.”
“Black gossip? That’s big.”
“I’m not unproud of that,” I admitted.
“Ignore it all,” Liz said. “Tomorrow there’ll be a #MeToo #DontForgetMe—”
“#WhatAboutMe,” I said.
“Exactly,” she said. “They’re still diving into the ’90s; they haven’t even touched the aughts, and the Twitter news cycle is thirty seconds long.”
“Thank you,” I said. I rubbed my shoulder. Granite.
“Now. Gio.”
Gio.
“We kissed,” I said.
“Scale of one to ten.”
“Broke the scale.”
“A real man,” she said.
“I don’t remember ever being kissed like that. Where has that kiss been?”
“Maybe they don’t make kisses like that anymore,” Liz mused.
“Maybe kissing is a lost art,” I said.
“Maybe it’s like one of those ancient languages,” Liz said.
“It was like … slipping into a warm bath.”
“Tongue?”
“The tip,” I said. “Gentle yet firm.”
“Oh,” she said. “Oh … my God.”
We paused.
“Am I allowed to have sex while fighting for my life?” I asked.
“It’s mandatory,” Liz said. “Check your divorce manual.”
My other line was ringing.
“That’s him!” I said.
“Go!”
I switched over to Gio.
“Did you forget something?” I asked.
“My heart?” he asked. “My soul?”
“C’mon.”
“My common sense?” he opined.
“Anyone who’s ever sat through one of your movies knows you have no common sense.”
“I’m falling in love with a woman who’s going through a divorce,” he said. “I’ve lost my mind.”
“Hashtag fake news,” I said.
He laughed. I was getting used to that laugh. No, addicted. Can you be addicted to a laugh? Is there a Gio’s Laugh Anonymous?
“You have a home alarm, yes?”
“Yes.”
“Put it on,” he said. “There are people out there who care about your health and safety and brain and smile and warm, soft lips.”
Then he hung up.
18
It’s My Ex Parte and I’ll Cry If I Want To
Sunglasses were my friend.
As were hoodies.
And baseball caps. (Dodgers, Rams, Raiders, Braves, Sox. Clippers. Lakers. I was a polyamorous fan. A sports polygamist.)
I wore them in tandem for days.
One hot afternoon spent trudging up a wide, dusty trail into the brittle Santa Monica Mountains, dodging Lycra-clad kamikazes on $10,000 bikes, I wore all three.
My piss tape had managed to land on the wings of a Spix’s macaw—a slow news day—a rare creature emerging from the chattering classes flying from phone to phone. Meanwhile, nary a syllable had escaped the tweeter in chief’s leaden fingertips, nor a befuddled media icon taken down by a thirty-year-old buttocks swipe. No mass shooting, no swordplay with nuclear weapons. CNN wasn’t sobbing, Fox wasn’t shouting.
The news had become an iceberg, stolid, unmoving.
Nothing had happened.
So I’d become a meme.
Memes.
I had a nickname. Nicknames: Nappy Novelist. Pisseller. Wet Wipe Wordsmith. Urine Time …
Lucas, my agent, left me a message. I hadn’t talked to him in weeks. “Superbabe!” he said. “You’ve cracked the Amazon Top 100 in pop fiction.”
Then he paused.
“Pee makes all things possible,” he’d said and giggled. I pictured his curls bouncing uncontrollably.
“Off with the sunglasses,” said the security guard, hairline receding under her weave, busty figure lacquered into her uniform. “No sunglasses.”
I slipped off my glasses and placed them in a bin that looked like a grimy holdover from a coal mining operation. I slipped off my purse and set it in. I watched as the rubber teeth swallowed and gulped.
I stared ahead at the marble tunnel of the courthouse as I stepped through the x-ray machine.
The guard’s eyelashes fluttered, big as dust mops.
“I know you,” she said, recognition lighting up her green contacts.
I hooked my glasses onto my ears and slunk sideways to the elevator bank.
* * *
Anne was running a few minutes late to the emergency custody hearing, so I sat on a cold, unforgiving bench outside the courtroom watching all the other chickens in their midnight blues and blacks, waiting to be plucked and slaughtered. And the lawyers, the roosters, parading by with their overstuffed briefcases, their puffed-up breasts.
