CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
REBECCA
A GUY NAMED CURTIS CALLS me. At first, I don’t get that he’s Evan’s driver because the call comes shortly after I get back from Cheesecake Factory, announcing that he’ll be by to get me in an hour.
Even after Curtis establishes his identity and the pieces snap into place, I still find myself looking at the clock. Curtis will be here at 3 PM, it seems.
But I’ve already said okay, and the phone is dead.
Wasn’t this supposed to be dinner?
I text Evan and get nothing. I try to message him, but I get nothing on LiveLyfe, either. I’m not surprised; Evan has thus far proven impossible to reach. He’s probably in the middle of a thousand things, and “thinking” all the while. I know what I asked him, but I don’t understand his reaction.
I’m reminded of the way you bring an orchid back to life. After the flower seems to die, you water and water and water the nothing it’s become. For weeks. Months. You start to feel like an idiot, feeding something that’s dead and gone. But then all of a sudden, the orchid grows anew, and you realize that all the time you spent doing nothing was doing something after all.
Is that what we were doing? Watering a project that only seemed aimless? Through all those days of undirected discussion, were we serving an idea that’s finally beginning to bloom?
I have Taylor’s number. But I don’t want to bother Evan while he’s busy. It must be an early dinner. I don’t know where we’re going, so I shower and then straddle the line between dressy and dressy dressy. I know we’re not going to Applebee’s. Or the Cheesecake Factory.
I have nothing else going on today. I started a new ad for my Make Men Do Stuff course today and now it’s on autopilot, throwing so much money into my account that Evan’s million might remain forever untouched. I posted yesterday on the blog, so that’s handled. I have no other plans for the afternoon — might as well roll with whatever Evan has planned.
Curtis picks me up in a big black Escalade. I get into the front seat. Curtis looks at me funny, and I realize I was supposed to sit in the back.
“First time in a limo?”
“Yeah.”
I think he’s going to make fun of me, but he ticks his head toward the stereo system.
“That means you get to pick the music.”
I find an ‘80s station. I wasn’t around in the ‘80s, but they have their own identity and have stamped themselves firmly on the zeitgeist. The song is “Come on Eileen.” It was my favorite ‘80s song before Benji ruined it for me, pointing out that there’s a porno by the same name.
Curtis puts me at ease. This is the driver Evan told me about — the one who refuses to call the boss by his first name even though Evan insists. Luckily, Curtis isn’t as formal with me.
We’re thick into the “Safety Dance” by the time the car stops. I was vogueing, so I didn’t notice until now that we’re at an airstrip.
Curtis kills the radio. He looks at me and says, “Let me open your door for you. Please.”
“Because it looks bad if you don’t?”
“Because I want to see the look on Mr. Cohen’s face when he sees that I let you ride up front.”
“Am I going to get you in trouble?”
Curtis scoffs as if this is the most ridiculous idea ever.
“Curtis?” I say, just as he’s preparing to exit.
He looks back at me, politely waiting.
“Why are we here?”
“Because the plane’s here.” He tilts his head. A white jet, too small to be anything but private, is thirty feet away, its door lowered and steps waiting.
“But why is the plane here?”
“Because this is where the runway is.”
Curtis grins, and I know I shouldn’t bother asking any more questions. He’ll just keep fucking with me.
I wait for Curtis to come around, then do my best to step out like a Hollywood starlet hitting the red carpet. I wouldn’t bother except that I’ve caught movement in the corner of my eye and I know that Evan is at the top of the plane’s steps.
“Madam,” Curtis says, loud enough for Evan to hear.
“Jeeves,” I reply.
Curtis closes the door. I take two steps then turn back and whisper, “Am I supposed to tip you?”
“It’s not a prom limo, Miss Rebecca.” He smiles wider. “And besides, if you sit up front, it ruins all the pretense — tipping included.”
I nod my thanks. Then I walk toward the plane, taking in Evan’s attire. Black suit, crisp white shirt, collar erect with no tie. Fortunately, I dressed to match. And, if the appreciative look on his face is any indication, I dressed to kill.
My charade breaks at the steps. I look up at him. He’s at the bottom, hand out to take mine. I glance at the jet.
“I don’t like flying.”
“You will in this.”
“Where are we going?”
“LA.”
“You said we were going to dinner.”
Evan snaps his fingers as if remembering something forgotten. “Oh. That’s right. I’m so stupid. Luckily, there are lots of restaurants in LA.” The hand again beckons for mine. “Come aboard, fly girl.”
I look around. We’re alone.
“Don’t I need to go through security?”
“Let me guess. First time flying private?”
“Is security not a thing?”
“And first time in a limo, I guess.”
I look back at Curtis. He’s still standing at the car, beside the front door I shouldn’t have come out of. He’s smiling at both of us.
“Oh, no. I do that all the time.”
I finally let Evan take my hand. This whole thing should bother me; but for some reason, it doesn’t. I’m a cat with her claws removed. A bee determined not to use her stinger. A snake with no venom.
Devo and the “Safety Dance” disarmed me.
All of that vigorous Coming on Eileen.
Evan leads me up the narrow staircase. We enter the cabin, and I’m shocked to see that it looks like an awesome living room shoved into a narrow tube. The seats are massive, soft-looking things with rising footrests. There’s a double-width couch and a few little tables. The curtain dividers — open now but closable like those on a commercial plane — are something from an elegant parlor, thick and lustrous. Sconces on the curved walls are better than the ones in my home. By a factor of a hundred.
“Like it?” Evan asks.
“I’ve seen better.”
I should by suspicious of my playful tone, but I’m not. In other worlds, this would be called “playful banter.” But I distrust banter of any sort, because I’m never an good at it. You know who is? Steve. Every time I let myself play back with him, I was letting my guard down. Those nights always ended either mediocre, or downright terrible. He’d play the player, and I’d play the idiot sidekick.
But now, meant for Evan, silly words come naturally.
I should watch myself.
I’m flirting.
With Evan — a guy I’ve promised myself I’d keep at a distance for reasons of professionalism.
“Have a seat,” he says.
“No champagne?”
I was joking, but before I finish my sentence, a woman arrives with a bottle. I guess she’s a flight attendant, but I’m used to them wearing Delta blue. This one looks like a model. The kind of woman that guys drool over. But Evan’s eyes, after noticing her arrival, train on me.
“Sorry, no. I forgot to request it. But can I interest you in this nice Château Lafite?”
“It’s a step down from my usual White Zinfandel,” I say.
“Clearly.”
“Got any sangria?”
“I think they have juices and fruit, but I’m pretty sure if we make sangria from the Lafite, the plane will be fallen upon by angry wine snobs.”
“That’s okay. They have tiny little nerd arms.”
There’s a moment. I’m suddenly self-conscious of my flirting, afraid I’m crossing that line. We already had sex. I think about it all the time. I want more, a lot more. But I’ve made the wrong choices far too many times.
“So?” Evan says, indicating the flight attendant’s bottle.
“No, thanks.”
I don’t want to be impaired any more than my endorphins have already made me. I’m wearing a pretty dress and heels as if for a date and I’m on a billionaire’s private jet headed to what I’m sure will be a ludicrously expensive dinner in LA. The engines are already firing, coming alive outside the windows. It won’t be a short affair. By the time we get there, eat, and come back, it’ll probably be six or seven hours. Seems logical for me to go along with this, if I intend to stay distant.
But there’s more than this pull I feel toward Evan — the pull I’m doing my best to be a big girl and resist. I’m also curious. Evan left our lunch like a man rushing to a fire, saying he needed to think. I know that whatever the past weeks of non-action have been leading up to, it’s finally starting to happen. And as the other person present in those weeks, I couldn’t be more curious.
Evan waves the attendant away. She raises the steps, seals the plane’s door, then vanishes. I don’t know where she’s tucked herself. It’s like a magic trick, how she leaves us alone.
I’m aware of our solitude, feeling a nervous need to fill the silence with words. But then there’s a sound, and the cockpit opens. I see a man and a woman in crisp white uniforms.
“All buttoned up back there?” says the woman, the pilot.
Evan raises his eyebrows at me as if to ask.
“What?” I say. “None of this?” I start making stewardess gestures, indicating the positions of the cabin exits and the location of the air masks, which I should always remember to put on myself before assisting others.
“Not unless you want me to ask Jenelle to make something up.”
“But how will I know what to do in the unlikely event of a water landing?”
Evan addresses the pilot. “We’re good to go.”
The door closes. Then, surprising me, the flight attendant appears and closes a second door I hadn’t seen, hidden behind the curtains. Apparently, the curtains are meant for decoration rather than dividing the room. This is a private jet. Of course there’s a door.
Now we really are alone. The jet moves without hesitation. This is how the one percent travel, no need for the bullshit I’ve gotten used to.
The runway.
Speed.
I’m pressed back into my seat. I don’t like flying, private or not.
My leg bobs up and down: a nervous tic.
But Evan’s hand settles atop my hand, gripping the armrest. After that my anxiety departs and a pleasant, frightening sensation replaces it.
We’re off the ground, into the unknown blue.