Romance Is My Day Job (8 page)

Honestly, it could be a lot worse. I never have a bad day working there, though it gets old. Simple office job? Not so simple if you feel like you're wasting your life, day after day, and returning to an empty apartment. I look forward to small things, like this new legal show called
Equal Justice
, starring Sarah Jessica Parker, Jane Kaczmarek, Cotter Smith, and this hot new actor Jon Tenney. After a long day in the office, I run home and get ready to watch, hoping that my new JT (John Taylor is on the back burner) will have more airtime. Because my brother is an actor and I have no exciting news to report (about anything), I tell him about my latest obsession.

“I'm so in love with one of the actors,” I blurt out, forgoing niceties. You can do that with siblings. “Have you heard of Jon Tenney?”

There's this pause on the other end of the line before he blows my ear out. “Oh God.
Jon?!
You like
Jon
? Ewwwww!”

“Whaddaya mean? He's gorgeous.”

“He's a good friend of mine. You've
met
him.”

“What? He's my future husband is what he is.”

The wheels in my head turn. What a twist of fate this is, just when I'm bored in Ohio. I could marry my new favorite actor on TV and move to Los Angeles, somehow slip into becoming an actress myself. I must use my brother wisely, though he doesn't seem excited about the idea of me and Jon (note to self: Brothers never help fix you up).

A couple weeks elapse, with me wanting to call Patrick and ask him more about Jon, my imaginary boyfriend. My mind races with what kind of wedding invitations we'll order, if I'll take his name when we marry. Imagine the squealing when I come home to a large manila envelope in my mailbox with the return address: J. Tenney. My hands shake as I open it and find a large photo of Jon Tenney and a real honest-to-God
letter
. I read it several times, looking for hidden meaning, using my book on handwriting analysis to dissect his psyche. Of course I compose a response, a long one, detailing my entire life, my problems, my upbringing, and my wish to come to California, and suggesting that maybe we could meet for coffee. Damn Nici and the Harlequins. My brain is abuzz with Jon and
Equal Justice
and our inevitable marriage.

My response to Jon goes unanswered, and, gradually, I come down from cloud nine. I will not be a movie star's wife—and I will no longer use my brother to further my love life. As the months tick by, I grow frustrated by the daily grind of waking up, getting coffee, doing repetitive tasks that don't tax my brain, eating the same lunch, going home, watching TV, falling asleep. This transition could easily turn into a permanent situation. Terrifying.

I take to drinking wine and scrawling in a notebook like I'm Hemingway. The “real world” is not the dating party of college, and I don't like it. This can't be how I end up. It seems outrageous that my suitors don't magically appear as I step outside on my way to the bus. My summer of hope evolves into a dreary January. Something has to change. Anything. I can only take so much red wine and ramen noodles.

 • • • 

Of course I should be careful what I wish for.

My life does change in one night, over the course of an hour and a half. I randomly become a traumatized crime victim. More on that later. It seems like a story one should tell over and over again. I'll only do it once. Suffice it to say, I come home one January morning from the hospital, disheveled. I can't bear to look at myself.

The positive: I'm very happy to be alive. The negative: Aside from the obvious, I regret all the energy I devoted to finding/keeping a boyfriend. Romance is a waste of time. There are bigger goals—such as taking care of myself, getting a better job. I don't want to be a loser, especially since I lost my latest temp job due to my little vacation in the ER.

I want to feel better, so I focus on the immediate things that make me smile:

Joan Rivers, who has her own talk show. I watch her every day and laugh my ass off.

Cigarettes and water. The perfect blend of dirty and clean. I need both.

Ice cream. It's the only thing I can stand to eat.

Pasta. Okay, that's delicious, too.

For now, I can't read romance novels. Because every heroine has a gritty backstory, I may fit even more into the mold, but it's a painful way to become my beloved quintessential romance heroine, Faun.

My mother cancels her much-needed vacation to Costa Rica to be with me. She pushes my hair back and looks seriously into my eyes—things she hasn't done since I was a kid.

I can see she's deeply worried, like I'm the bad-luck child who keeps getting into trouble. She feeds me, makes my phone calls, advises me on my next step, tells me everything will be okay, and takes me out for walks. Basically, this is the montage for regaining strength, going out into the world again. My mother pretty much saves me from rotting in my apartment. Frequent calls from my brother, Patrick, have their restorative properties, too. My mother and brother become the two people I call in case of any emergency. They are always there.

The bottom line is that adulthood doesn't begin as planned. My dream to be Tess McGill ends, and I pick up
The Bonfire of the Vanities
. No Harrison Ford for now.

 • • • 

A couple weeks later, when my mother leaves, I realize it's time for me to work again. Kelly Services, my temp agency, assigns me back at BP, that large oil company housed in that lofty downtown building of mauve marble. The edifice blankets me against the dirt and violence. I rush to my place of employment and lose myself in typing and answering phones, only this time on a different floor and for a different boss, a redhead, like me. Lindsay is stern, a female lawyer working in a mostly male field. Every day she is professional, discerning in her judgment. Now and then, she and I exchange personal information, but very rarely. I respect how she keeps boundaries with me. She knows about my troubles, gives me some leeway, but expects me to put in my time. Her expectations mean a lot to me, and I work hard for her.

This is the part of any romance novel that is never included, the mundane details, the forging ahead, the suffering that doesn't involve pining for a boy. I'm by myself and a mess. I desperately want to move back in with my parents, but that's not an option, so I put one foot in front of the other.

It is an absurd time for a boyfriend to appear.

For a boost, I sign up for a spring creative writing class. I took the fall semester and really enjoyed it, even wrote a couple of short stories. It meets in a school at night, a few blocks from my apartment. It's not the safest part of town, and I regret signing up for the class. Why bother with this when I could be lying on my couch and crying? The group will consist of retirees who want to crank out a book before the memories vanish—and maybe one cute guy sitting in the back, keeping to himself. What are the chances I'll find a sanctuary with this motley crew?

Turns out, it is the best decision. I slowly crawl out of my depressing hole. In a small classroom, with colorful collages on the walls, a blackboard, and those precious little desk chairs, I find some measure of peace—and distraction. Our teacher has spiky, fake-blond hair, that scattered aura of a busy writer homing in on her talent. She is a published author, writing children's books. I enjoy listening to her Australian accent for a few hours. We'll see if I learn anything.

“Okay, you're going to write a two-page essay, arguing a point,” the teacher tells us.

My classmates, the motley crew, are the same types as last semester. The man who likes to play golf. The wig-wearing lady in the scooter who beat cancer a couple times and has more energy than I do. A few women close to my mother's age, looking to express themselves. And then there's the cute guy, Zack, who has signed up again. He sits toward the back, off to the side. I sort of noticed him a few months ago, the first time I took the class. We don't really talk.

During our short break, I go outside to smoke. A couple people join me in my nicotine refuge. Zack comes out, but he doesn't smoke with us. I have this sense that he wants to be social but isn't quite sure how, which makes me like him even more. Maybe he's that beta male I sometimes catch in a romance novel—the guy who doesn't treat you badly, who listens to you, wants to spend time with you, is tender when you need him to be. Okay, so maybe Harrison Ford
is
that beta male in
Working Girl
. Just nice, a total curiosity.

I learn that he works as a freelance writer and loves music. He has hazel eyes set close, a wiry build, a spectacular smile, and thinning blond hair. Generally, that boy next door you should marry. He is twenty-seven, so cute, with this halting way of speaking, as if he's working to get the words out. Shyness worse than mine.

These strange feelings take root, like actual attraction, and I'm ashamed of how I feel. How could this happen to me again? I'm supposed to be in hibernation, focusing on healing. But my hormones melt me like a fever and even though we don't have an organic way of starting up a conversation, I psychically command our romance to happen. I am just that powerful.

One Wednesday night, I return home to find a message on my answering machine.

“Um . . . I . . . uh . . . am leaving a message for Patience . . . Smith. She's in my writing classes at the community center. Um . . . so I was wondering if you'd like to see a movie with me on Friday . . . um . . . after work. . . .”

He's too amazing for words, so inept in the manner of an awkward, infatuated boy with rescuer fantasies. This rush of romance happens at the darnedest times, when I don't want or need it to. Lucky for me, during those awful periods, I tend to look fantastic. I'm super-skinny, like at a weight I haven't seen since the eighth grade. My hair is long and red. Who wouldn't want to date me, setting aside my currently gloomy narrative?

For our first date, Zack is taking me to see
Dances with Wolves
, which is a movie about Kevin Costner dancing with animals, I guess, and there's a romance and Native American lore. It's the boost I need, and I can't wait. When I get to Zack's car, I see flowers on the seat. Boys in college never do this, so I wonder if they're for someone else. I pretend I don't see them until I do.

“Are those for me?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says hesitantly, though I can see he's smiling in the dark.

This is typical beta-male behavior, the gift-giving with follow-through in manners. Harrison Ford gives Melanie Griffith her own briefcase after she “forgets” hers for a meeting. That's beta. Maybe this is the kind of guy I should have been seeing all along. Alpha heroes don't give you jack!

Zack's little touches make me ecstatic—lovely flowers, cheeseburgers, cake just for me. From day one, Zack delivers these small items. Plus, he loves movies as much as I do. We see
Thelma & Louise
on the next date, then
The Silence of the Lambs
after this
.
It's strange to see these ultraviolent movies mere weeks after my victimhood, but I go with it. In fact, Anthony Hopkins's Hannibal Lecter makes me giddy with joy, even as I face a tumultuous year in and out of courtrooms and the ADA's office. Zack's care also helps. We make dinners together, keep seeing films, drive around the city, and listen to music.

 • • • 

In the spring, I go visit my brother in New York City, a scary trip for me given I'm still recovering and it's full of noise, danger, and people. I sit on a stool as Patrick performs in
Tony n' Tina's Wedding,
a hit off-Broadway show. It's one of those performances where the actors interact with the audience. Patrick plays a greasy wedding photographer, and, at one point, he comes over to me in character. His hair is slicked back, and he's wearing an ugly suit. But behind the costume, I can see he's happy that I'm there. It's the first time we've seen each other since my ordeal.

“Can I take your picture, young lady?” he says.

“Sure, because I'm getting married,” I respond.

I can see a flicker of alarm on Patrick's face, but I don't let his reaction sway me. I'm certain I'm going to marry Zack, though he doesn't know this yet. Right now, he's back home, writing an article for some magazine, probably missing me. He's really the greatest. For the rest of the weekend, Patrick seems skeptical of my overflowing devotion (though if he were really concerned, he could fix me up with his movie-star friend).

Zack and I continue in our sweet vein, engaging in such normal activities that I slowly reclaim my groove. It's not lost on me how lucky I am to have found such an angel during a difficult time. We talk about new careers and ditching Cleveland forever. He wants to move and so do I, not necessarily to the same place. Though we don't speak about our future as a couple or apart, I start to wonder—and I think he does, too—if our relationship is meant to be long term. My marriage plans could be a bit hasty. While I only want to be with him, I consider that my first priority is finding a permanent job and focusing on myself.

With my skills, I make a short-term plan for a real career. Let's see: bilingual in French, nine years of Latin, decent typist. When in doubt, teach high school! I consult a map and pick the most beautiful places in the United States (that I know of). After careful research, I send out a slew of résumés to random schools in Maine, Colorado, New Mexico, California, Virginia, and Georgia.

 • • • 

In May of that year, Sandia Preparatory School, a private school in Albuquerque, New Mexico, contacts me for an interview to be a high school French teacher. They like my history as a Francophile and my boarding school experience, and my Latin training is icing on the cake. I have no teaching credentials, but what the hell, I hop on a plane and the second I smell the air, feel the peace of a slower life, I know this is the place for me. Private schools tend to like young blood, so I rely on this to help my chances.