Heart Improvement: A Brooklyn Heights Bachelor Romance

Chapter 2 - Scott

Buzz, buzz.

Landed in Munich. My cousin should be there later today,I read.

It’s from my downstairs neighbor/tenant, Myles. His lease says no subletting—I was burned on that once and swore never again—but since he was going to be gone for two years, and he vouched for his cousin, I said okay. It helped that he’s a good tenant.

I’m trying to figure out what to wear. Since it’s an audition, I should look the part. General contractor who’s not afraid to get his hands dirty. But also not too dirty. The hardest part is the shoes. I find a new pair of work boots and put them on.

Too clean,I think, but what the hell am I going to do? Scuff them up on purpose? I examine my current go-to-boots. They are covered with paint and plaster splatters. I look back and forth between my two choices, stuck in limbo.

“What you need to do,” I say out loud, pointing at myself in the mirror. “Is chill the fuck out.”

I got this. I’ll just repeat that over and over until I get to the meeting. I force down some food. I haven’t been this nervous in ages. I haven’t been to an audition in ages. This isn’t exactly an audition, but still. Man, I hope this works.

I take my folder and head to the subway. It’s a beautiful day, the kind that makes me glad I chose to stay in Brooklyn Heights rather than commute from Long Island or Jersey. Garbage day in July and August, however…

The train is coming when I go down the stairs to the platform. I run for it and hop on in the nick of time. Good sign number one, I think. It’s after rush hour so I have no trouble finding a seat. I check my phone.

I was at a site all morning and the crew had it all under control. They’ll call me if there’s an issue, but I don’t expect anything.

The folder contains my project, my idea, that I have for season one. It’s another brownstone. This one is broken up into five terrible condos. I’ve been buying them as they come on the market. Restoring it to its former glory is going to be a blast—a very profitable blast—but if my plan works, it may be the last renovation I do.

“Scott Howell,” I tell the receptionist at the network building. She starts typing. “I have an appointment—”

“Sixth floor,” she says in a bored voice. “Suite 604.”

I head to the elevator. I would have expected her to recognize me, she’s the demographic. Not a big deal, I tell myself. I’m here for a meeting, not to get laid.

I’m a few minutes early. I expect to have to wait, but I’m ushered right into a large office. There are three people waiting for me. And none of them are Larry O’Connell, director of programming.

They introduce themselves. Marie Thomas, Ken Bouchard and Oliver—call me Ollie!—Proctor. I don’t catch all the titles, something development and something else marketing. Ollie doesn’t bother with his title.

“I’m just here because I’m a fan,” he says, shaking my hand vigorously.

“He’s an intern,” Ken says. “A new one.”

“Always glad to meet a fan,” I say.

“Can I?”

Ken rolls his eyes.

“He asked me for a selfie with you,” he says. His annoyance is obvious. “You don’t have to.”

“No, I don’t mind,” I say.

I take the selfie with Ollie. He says it’s perfect and thanks me profusely. Marie shoos him out of the room.

“He’s probably posting it already,” Ken says.

“Not a problem,” I say.

In fact, I think it’s downright fantastic. Post away, Ollie. Tell everyone I’m here at the network to pitch a show. Get some buzz going before I even get started.

“So,” Marie says. “We thought your idea was…interesting.”

“It doesn’t hurt that you’re you,” Ken adds.

Now it’s Marie’s turn to roll her eyes.

“Why don’t I just show you what I have in mind,” I say, holding up my folder.

We sit at the conference table, and I show them what I’ve brought. Pictures. Plans I’ve drawn up. A very aggressive schedule.

“I have plenty of staff,” I say. “I know with this kind of show you can’t be waiting. And the permits are all set.”

“What’s your backstory?” Marie asks.

“Backstory?”

“How did you end up doing this? I mean, you were going to be the next Bruce Willis or something.”

“Right,” I say, suppressing a wince.

I was fifteen when I got the part in the movie. The part was for a kid a little bit younger than me, but Hollywood likes that. Older kids are easier to work with. I didn’t have any idea what I was doing, but it didn’t matter. The next year, when the movie was released, it became the largest grossing movie of the summer, then of the year, then of all time. For a while, anyway.

There were four sequels. Last I heard they were thinking of another one. They didn’t want me for any of them. Nothing personal, when you have time travel it jumps around a lot.

Marie and Ken, especially Ken, are waiting.

“So, um, first off, a shout out to my parents,” I say. “They didn’t let it go to my head. They insisted on investing the money for me, but high school was pretty normal.”

They don’t seem impressed. Marie, in particular, looks somewhat bored. I decide to rush through the rest.

“College, NYU, acting,” I explain. “I bought a condo in the Village my junior year. Not typical for a college student, but my dad thought it was a decent investment. He’s a contractor so I was swinging a hammer early. He helped me fix it up on the weekends.”

There was a lot of yelling with that first project. I had my ideas. He had the way it had always been done. The worst was the paint color. He told me I’d regret it and he was right. But he helped me repaint it. I’ve pretty much stuck with white ever since. Boring? Yes. Safe? Definitely.

“That’s not bad,” Marie says, typing on her computer. “One condo to?”

“I’m on one fifty seven now,” I say.

I am proud of what I built, but I recognize I had the means to start that most people could only dream of. And an absolutely massive safety net.

“So this is another home renovation show,” she says.

“With Scott Howell,” Ken says. “His name recognition alone—”

“I don’t think it’s enough, sorry, no offense.”

“None taken,” I say.

I’m not really offended, more like devastated.

“Audiences like the contractor and designer dynamic,” she explains.

“Oh,” I say, perking up. “I know a lot of designers. I could call someone—”

“No,” she says. “I mean a couple. People like to envision themselves leaving their mundane jobs behind and building fabulous houses and making lots of money. All with the person they love.”

“It’s usually not that simple. Renovating is stressful, for everyone,” I point out.

“Oh, I know,” Marie says. “We remodeled a bathroom, one, just one bathroom and I almost had to get divorced. I talked my husband into buying a brand-new condo rather than redo the kitchen.”

“We were hoping for a couple,” Ken says. “I googled you, but I didn’t see that you are seeing anyone.”

I’m not.

“I try to keep that part of my life private,” I say. “But I can find a designer. I have several I recommend to clients all the time.”

And several I absolutely, under no circumstances at all, would ever work with again. But to get the show? Could I deal with it? Perhaps.

“I could get you some names,” I say, but Marie is shaking her head, firmly.

“I’m sorry. I’m not pitching it to the director of programming with just you. Or you and some random.”

“Oh,” I say.

My heart is on the floor. I really thought this would work. And I have no back up plan, not for this. Marie stands up, followed by Ken. I shake their hands and Ken walks out with me.

“Look,” he says when we reach the elevator. “It could still happen.” My spirits lift a little. “Just, uh, call us when you get engaged. Preferably to a designer. A hot one.”

“Thanks,” I say miserably.

I check my phone in the elevator. No messages, no texts. I could call one or more of my foremen, to check in. But if they are not bugging me, I’d just be wasting their time.

The day is still lovely and instead of heading down into the subway I start walking downtown. I keep walking. Eventually, I stop in Tompkins Square Park and buy a cup of fruit. I realize I haven’t eaten all afternoon, but I don’t have an appetite. I have a huge ball of regret filling my stomach.

I get a text as I’m getting close to the bridge. There was an electrical problem, but it’s been fixed. I never thought I would be pissed to have such a competent crew, but there it is. I need something to do, other than sulk.

But sulking it is. The nice day means the bridge is packed with tourists. I get some satisfaction confidently weaving my way through them. By the time I reach my house on Remsen Street I’m exhausted.

“Good,” I mutter.

I open the door and pick the mail up off the floor. I’ll get to bed early and start fresh in the morning. Maybe it’s time I give up on Hollywood. They don’t want me. I have a nice house, a good business. According to my mom all I need to do is find the right girl.

I’m walking towards the kitchen when I realize I’m holding a magazine. I squint at it. Definitely not mine. I look and it’s my address, but it says C. Mullaney on it.

Must be Myles’s cousin,I think. Good a time as any to introduce myself. And maybe let it be known that I’m not going to be tolerating any large parties. Myles said his cousin was going to school, but not until September.

I trudge down the stairs and ring the bell to the lower apartment. At least Myles promised me he’d still be paying the rent, that’s one reason I agreed to this.

“Hello?” I yell and knock.

If the bell is out, I can fix that. I can see the top of a blonde head through the two panes of glass at the top of the door.

“I’m Scott,” I yell through the door. “I live upstairs. Myles said you were moving in today. I…uh…have your magazine.”

I hold it up to the window. No response. Maybe she can’t see it.

“Okay. I’ll just leave it here then. Sorry to bug you.”

I turn around. Introverted tenants are fine with me. I haven’t had one turn out to be a serial killer yet. Then I hear the sound of the locks being opened. I guess I’ll have to be social. I should have dumped the magazine and ran. Too late now.