Chapter 8 - Scott
“This is great.”
Chelsea raises her glass to me and I clink it with mine. I grab my phone.
“I have to make a call.”
“You’re calling the network, now?”
“No.” I shake my head. “Not the network. I need to put an offer in on that property.” I scroll through my contacts. “Shoot.”
I open the laptop back up, log in and check the listing. Oh yes, I think, how could I forget? Marta and I spent a good five minutes gawking at the wallpaper. She answers immediately.
“Hi, it’s Scott. The one on fifteenth, I want it.”
“Which—”
“Baths of blood wallpaper.”
She laughs. We hammer out the details quickly and she promises to call the seller right away. I put my phone down. Chelsea is staring at me.
“I can sense you want to dig right into this project.” I point to the listing again. “But that will be at least six months down the road. Do you mind if we talk about the one for the show?”
“Did you just buy that house?”
“I put an offer in, but probably.”
“Probably?”
“Cash offer, no contingencies, no inspection—”
“No inspection? Are you nuts?”
I get up and grab a pot to cook some pasta in.
“I pretty much inspected it today.”
I saw a lot of houses, but only took the time to really poke around three of them. There were a couple of reasons it appealed to me. The garage was one of them. People underestimate how great it is to have a garage, and a driveway, in New York.
“You really just decided to spend a million dollars on that house?”
Her face screws up with shock and concern. Now, that’s not exactly a sexy look, but it’s still cute.
“I know what I’m doing. But if the show works out, maybe we can do this project together next.” I open a cabinet and pull out two boxes. “Spaghetti or ziti?”
“Spaghetti.”
“Marinara or pesto?”
“Oh, pesto.”
Her eyes flash with excitement. A thrill runs through me. If she looks at me like that when I mention pesto, what would it feel like to have her look at me like that wanting…me?
My phone buzzes and she hands it to me. I look at it.
They accepted.
I text back that I’ll sign the offer tomorrow.
“Looks like I got the house.”
“Wow, that fast?”
“Welcome to New York. Now, about the show—”
“Right. Our business.”
She points back and forth between us.
“I’ll call them tomorrow.” I rub my chin. “How am I going to explain my sudden fiancée? Maybe they won’t care.”
“Or.” Chelsea rubs her own chin, obviously thinking. “Tell them we were already engaged. But you wanted to ask me first.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Because you’re a nice guy. You wouldn’t commit me to something until we talked about it.”
“Oh, okay.” I point to my chest. “Nice guy. Got it.” I do some more of my own thinking. “They are going to want to meet you.”
“Yeah, that makes sense.”
A thought occurs to me.
“You need a ring.”
“What?”
“An engagement ring.”
Chelsea looks down at her hand.
“Oh,” she says in a small voice.
“Not a problem. We’ll go to the diamond district. I know a guy—”
“You know a guy?”
I shrug.
“New York, remember?”
Over dinner I pepper her with questions about life in rural Wisconsin. Her eyes seem to get a little misty when she talks about home. I pat her hand and debate giving her a hug but don’t. We’ve finished the whole bottle of wine and while I’m fine, she’s like half my size. I’m sure it affected her a lot more than me. And I’m not letting my sex drive ruin this for me. No sense winding myself up over something that’s not going to happen.
I walk her downstairs.
“Well, goodnight,” she says.
“Goodnight.”
We both linger an extra second and I almost change my mind. Then I turn abruptly and leave. I’ll just take a shower, watch the ballgame, and go to bed.
My plan doesn’t work. I have trouble falling asleep because I can’t stop thinking about her. Then when I finally do fall asleep, I have a long, pleasant and very explicit dream about her. So when I wake up I’m pretty frustrated.
I spend the morning reviewing the contract for the property in Bensonhurst with my lawyer. They want to close quickly, which is no problem for me. Finally, it is 11:15—the time I picked to call the network.
I call Marie first. I’m told she’s not available. I ask for Ken instead of leaving a message. I have to wait—I guess while my importance is verified—but then I’m put through.
“Scott, great to hear from you.”
I decide to jump right in.
“I’m engaged.”
“What?”
“Actually, I was engaged when I met with you guys.”
“Wait, what? Why didn’t you say something?”
“I couldn’t. My fiancée.” I pause dramatically. “Well, I couldn’t just agree to it without talking to her about it.”
“It’s been over a week.”
Shit. I just start talking, having no idea what I’m going to say.
“Yes, she was a little hesitant. I had to let her think it over. She’s a more careful person than I am. That’s why we are perfect together, you know, we balance each other out.”
It’s kind of true. I was honestly thinking about buying two houses last night. That would have probably been doable, but also more risk than I need to take. There’s always another house. Her astonishment at how quickly I made a decision did slow me down. In a good way.
“Well, fiancée is good.” Ken pauses, I think I can hear his fingers drumming on his desk. “But we need a designer. Is she a designer?”
“She’s starting class at FIT in the fall.”
I figure there’s no point in lying about that. We can only take this so far. Fake engagement, um, sure. We can’t fake a whole career for her.
Ken isn’t saying anything. I cross my fingers and wait.
“I’ll talk to Marie.”
Yes! I fist pump in the air and then compose myself.
“Um, sure, great, well, you know how to reach me.”
“Give me your number again.”
I do that and we hang up. I look down at the floor. She’s probably not there. Just as well. We shouldn’t celebrate until we know for sure. But it feels like a, very big, step in the right direction.
I text Chelsea, but she doesn’t respond.
Must be too busy at work,I think. I decide to go over the bookkeeping for my business. I do it every month. It’s probably the thing I hate most about my job, but it does require my full attention. I won’t be able to think, or more likely obsess, about what is going to happen with the network. I sit down and resolve to plow through it.
Three hours later, I’m really fed up and ready to call it quits—not that there is anything wrong, it’s just boring—when my phone rings. The number isn’t in my phone, but I answer it anyway, crossing my fingers.
“Scott Howell here.”
“Scott. Ken.”
“Hi.”
It must be good news, right?I think. If it was bad he would just ghost me.
“Can you guys meet…hey, what’s your fiancées name?”
“Chelsea.”
“Chelsea…Chelsea what?”
Shit!
“Can you hold on a second. The…oven.”
I type frantically on my laptop. Where is that email from Myles? There—Chelsea’s last name is…Mullaney. Whew.
“Sorry,” I say into my phone. “The…casserole was burning.”
“Oh crap.”
“Don’t worry, it’s mostly salvageable. I’ll scrape the top off. Where were we?”
“What’s Chelsea’s last name?”
“Mullaney.”
I spell it for good measure.
“Great. Can you guys come in, uh, Thursday? Ten-thirty? Marie said she’d give you a half hour.”
“We’ll be there.”
“Thanks.”
We hang up and I immediately text Chelsea.
Where are you?
On my way home,she texts back.
“Perfect,” I tell my phone.
I jump up, grab my keys and run out the front door. I go down the stairs to the sidewalk. I can see her, making her way slowly up the block. I jog down to meet her.
“Hi.”
She looks up at me. I reach automatically for the bag in her hand.
“Thanks.”
I can’t stand it, I’m practically bouncing with excitement.
“I have great news.”
“What?”
“They called. The network. They want to meet us on Thursday.”
“Oh,” she says.
She takes a beat to think about it, then a big smile spreads across her face. Boy, she’s gorgeous when she smiles, I think. It’s like the sun coming out after a huge rainstorm. Suddenly life seems good and full of endless possibilities.
“Hey, do you want to go see the property tomorrow? Oh, and we have to get an engagement ring. I’ll call my friend. Monday after work maybe?”
The words are tumbling out of my mouth. I can’t organize my thoughts. I haven’t been this excited since my initial meeting at the network. I realize I wasn’t dealing with my disappointment as well as I’ve been telling myself I have. Now the invisible weight is off my shoulders, my acting career isn’t completely dead yet.
She touches my shoulder gently.
“Easy there,” she says. “One step at a time.”
I take a deep breath. She’s right.
“Absolutely. So do you want to see the property?”
“Sure. When?”
“Are you working tomorrow?”
“No.” She looks somewhat happy about that. “So tomorrow?”
She smiles again.
“Scott, as long as I don’t have to get up at 5AM, then definitely.”