It’s a Love Story

Chapter 9

CHAPTER 9

I DON’T GET US SEATS TOGETHER BECAUSE (1) WE BOTH prefer aisle seats, and (2) I don’t want to talk to Dan for six hours. I cross my arms and legs in a sort of self-hug. I do not know where I got the idea that this was going to be easy. Just like that, I’d find a script on my desk and live happily ever after.

I look two rows up to where Dan is watching something in black and white with subtitles on his laptop. So on brand. He is also, and I hate to admit that I remember this, wearing the same flannel shirt that he was wearing the first time we met. It’s celery green and light blue checked, softer colors than the flannel the paper towel guy wears.

I met Dan for the first time four months ago. I saw him before he saw me. Mandy and I had just finished lunch at Mystique, and we walked outside as he was crossing Sunset Boulevard, barely dodging traffic. I’d like to say I noticed him because of the Tesla that came to a screeching halt, just missing his leg, but the truth is he’s a person you’d notice anyway. Maybe for the way his black jeans gripped his legs or the way his camera bag made him look slightly threatening, like he was armed. He’s a few inches over six feet, with that uncombed hair and those rectangular eyes. His face is sharp lines—high cheekbones and a square jaw. He’s striking, but take all of that away and you’d still notice him for the way his eyes were trained on a spot behind me. There was a certainty and purpose in the way he carried his body through traffic.

The Tesla must have made some kind of contact, because when he got to our side of the street he stopped, looked around, and rubbed his leg, like he’d just come to.

“Are you okay?” Mandy asked.

He looked at her and then at me, as if he was surprised he wasn’t the only person in Los Angeles that day. There’s a certain arrogance to not taking in your surroundings, and based on what I now know about Dan and his singlemindedness, I’d call his arrogance dangerous. He rubbed his leg again. “I guess I deserved that, crossing the street like an asshole.”

“Well, yes,” I said. I remember immediately thinking, Very attractive, but absolutely not. I was eight months into my Manifest a Solid Partner project, and one of my rules is that no one gets completely overlooked. So I gave him a once-over and ran him through my basic checklist. It was a quick decision, even for me, but it was a hard no. It wasn’t the way his hair seemed to have never been combed. Or the way his navy blue eyes seemed dark where they should be light. It was because I could never tell our kids that the first sentence their father ever said to me contained the word “asshole.”

I was about to walk away, but his eyes locked on mine and I couldn’t help but think of Batman. Batman, but not at all Bruce Wayne. He’d still be in that leather suit, stepping out of the Batmobile, and I’d be the only one who was able to see his face when he pulled off his cowl, his hair sticking up in literally every direction, his eyes telling me he’d rid the city of danger. And yet, still, not partner material, which was great because I’d just had a really big lunch and didn’t feel like acting datable.

He looked back over my head and said, “I’m trying to get that.” I turned around to see a hawk perched on the corner of a billboard above the restaurant. It was turned in profile like an eagle on the back of a quarter. There was a eucalyptus tree behind it, and the billboard said DON ’ T GIVE UP , like that was advice we needed.

“Los Angeles is so crazy,” he said, almost to himself. He took his camera out of the case, and we made no move to leave. I wanted to see if he could get the shot, and I also just wanted to stay. “Do you mind holding this for a sec?” he asked, handing me the camera case.

I took it and slung it over my shoulder, and he held my gaze for a second. It was unnerving the way he looked at me like he recognized me and also the way he asked me to hold his stuff like we’d known each other forever. I had the sense that I was not in my normal reality, as people maneuvered around us on the sidewalk. So when Mandy motioned for us to leave, I did the not-normal thing: I told her to go, and I stayed. Dan took a dozen shots before I saw it: the hawk turned its head and looked directly at him.

Dan looked down at his camera, “Got it. Don’t give up.” He showed it to me, and it was perfect. It was like he hired that hawk as a model. We both looked back up at the billboard as the hawk flew away, disappearing into the hills.

“Do you sell greeting cards?” I asked. I was sort of kidding.

He laughed and I saw his smile for the first time. Not Batman at all. His smile chased away all the darkness. “No, I just saw him from my apartment. I live right over there.” He motioned to a pink building across the street. “I liked how he was sitting there for emphasis, worried we might miss the message.”

“I like the way he was sort of stern there, staring at us,” I said.

“You like someone giving you a stern look?” he asked. He turned to me as he said it and locked on my eyes.

I made my sternest possible face—eyes pinched, forehead scrunched. “Yes, it’s my favorite.” I don’t know why I did this. But there was something about this stranger who’d just risked his life to take a photo of a bird for no reason in the middle of the day in West Hollywood. Something about the whole situation had me a little out of my body, out of my put-together Jane costume.

Dan matched my stern eyes and we both laughed. Later, when I recounted this meeting in more detail than necessary, Clem accused me of bringing Actual Jane into a flirting situation. And I know what she meant—there was an unprecedented amount of unplanned speaking and joking, particularly given how objectively attractive Dan was.

“Who do you think pays for that billboard? “ I asked Dan. “Who knows. Some kind of nut. A lot of nuts out here.”

“Out where?”

“California.”

“Where are you from?”

“New York. Long Island,” he said.

“No nuts there?”

He laughed again. “Just my family. Everyone else seems pretty normal. I’m Dan,” he said and extended his hand.

I looked at it for a split second before taking it. It was in that second that I realized we were in the middle of an actual meet-cute. A wonky, distracted meet-cute with a near hit-and-run. I’d just made him laugh twice, which is two more than the recommended number of times you should make a guy laugh if you want him to ask you out. But Dan was (and is) absolutely not my type, not partner material. He’s rough instead of smooth; his hair does not rest in a crescent over his ears. And yet, as previously established, he’s objectively handsome and I’m an idiot. “I’m Jane,” I said and took his hand.

“It’s nice to meet you. Want me to send you the photo?” Okay, believe me when I say that Dan is the worst, but this was an impressive way to low-key ask for my number. I stand by my respect for it. I had never once given my number to an unvetted guy, but inexplicably, I said, “Sure,” and put my number into his phone.

He looked at his phone and then up at me. “Okay, Jane Jackson. See you later.” He turned and crossed the street toward his pink building, and I watched him go.

He texted the next day, which was a Wednesday. Not that this matters or is burned into my memory, but I still have the conversation on my phone. It seems impossible now how light we were being. He texted the photo and the words: Worth risking my life for, right?

Me: For sure. I’m glad to have it

And I remember thinking that I hope he knows I mean I’m glad to have the photo, not his life. I mean, obviously.

There was a long pause that made me think he was done with the conversation, then he texted: What should we call him? Our hawk?

The “our” changed the tenor of the conversation. I replied: Tails

Dan: Tails? Like he has more than one tail? I don’t see it

Me: No, look at the back of a quarter

Unnecessarily long pause. Then: Oh I get it. I like that. Tails

Now it was back in my court. I have never been good at small talk and keeping things going. Of course the second I started typing I would have committed to a comment because he’d see the three little dots of anticipation there. I remember I started to sweat, and then he called.

“Hi,” I answered.

“Hey. Hi. It’s me.”

“I know.”

“I was going to try to keep the conversation going by texting another thing about the hawk. But to be honest I’m sort of out of hawk talk.”

“Hawk talk.” I actually repeated it.

“Yeah, so I was wondering if I could take you to dinner on Friday. Do you eat seafood?”

“I do. Sure.” I said something like this. I remember being flustered, both by the fact that I’d been asked out by this stranger and that I’d let him slide in under the radar. He said he’d text me Friday, and we got off the phone. And maybe I was excited. Well, I probably was. I mean, I didn’t know any better.

*

THE NEXT WORDS I heard him say were “It’s trash.”

It was two days later, Friday, and he was sitting next to Nathan in the conference room where I was supposed to be meeting the team for my new film, Star Crossed. He had his back to the view of the partial Hollywood sign, with the letters HO crowding the edge of the frame. He looked up when I walked in and smiled that smile like he was glad to see me. It started in his eyes and then spread throughout his face. Batman on Christmas morning. I probably smiled back.

We both had yet to realize that he’d just insulted me and, more importantly, the first script that I was solely responsible for bringing to Clearwater.

“What are you doing here?” I asked him, tucking my hair behind my ear and wishing I’d worn heels.

“You know each other?” asked Nathan. “Perfect.”

Dan said, “No. We just met. About a hawk.” He seemed totally thrown. “I might be working on this thing. Why are you here?” He was seated next to a woman who I would learn was Amy Halstead, an up-and-coming director.

“It’s my project,” I said.

“This?” He slid it away from himself toward Amy, like it was a bowl of cereal and the milk had gone bad.

I shook Amy’s hand and sat opposite Nathan. I needed a minute that I didn’t seem to have. I scanned the big bowl of peanut M&M’s and the sandwich platter. “Nathan said he was hiring a director. What is it that you do?” I was trying to sound even, businesslike.

“I’d be director of photography.” He looked at Nathan and then back at me. “I was just saying I have some thoughts about the script. It’s so crazy that this is you.” Dan Finnegan. Nathan had told me about a cinematographer he’d wanted to get on a project. He’d won an award for an indie film he made with the great Vinny Banks that I’d never seen and Nathan had loved.

“Jane optioned this script cheap, so I’m open to talking about it. We don’t have to green-light it,” said Nathan.

I opened my mouth to speak, but the words Yes, we do didn’t come out.

“I read it very quickly,” Amy said, and I didn’t quite know what that meant.

“It’s just a little light,” said Dan.

“Light?” I asked. He’d said “trash.”

“Maybe trite?” he went on.

Nathan laughed and poured himself a green juice from a pitcher in the middle of the table. It’s a wonder he ever leaves the bathroom. “It’s a love story, Dan,” he said. “Trite is the name of the game.”

“No,” I said. “Sweet and emotional is what we’re going for.”

“Please,” said Dan.

“Please what?”

He smiled at me softly, like he was sorry. Like he didn’t want to say what came next, which happened to be: “This isn’t exactly The Notebook. It’s insta-love followed by activities with opportunities for hands to touch, followed by— shoot me—a misunderstanding. I’m sorry, Jane, it’s got no heart.”

If there’s one thing you don’t want to get me started on, it’s The Notebook . He waits all that time and builds her a house? Come on. “The Notebook is i nsta- love followed by activities.”

“ The Notebook is not insta-love. It’s attraction leading to love based on mutual appreciation of particular qualities,” he said.

I looked at Nathan for a reaction. I don’t know when I’d ever debated The Notebook , but Dan had gotten something boiling inside of me and I was all in.

I leaned forward a bit. “He sees her and immediately climbs the Ferris wheel,” I said. Like a maniac, I don’t add.

“Because Noah likes Allie’s exuberance and sense of fun, that’s not insta-love.”

“You really know your Notebook,” I muttered under my breath.

“I do. I’m sorry, Jane, I don’t hate love stories, but they need to dive a little deeper emotionally to grab me. This isn’t that.” He slid the script toward me.

“It isn’t what?” I asked.

“I think he’s telling you it isn’t The Notebook,” Amy said. “Well, of course it’s not The Notebook. No one ever said it was.” Dan —I suddenly hated that stupid name. Rhymes with “can” and “fan.” Hit a man with a pan. “Only The Notebook’s The Notebook.” My voice cracked—I remember this. And I was annoyed because we could be disagreeing about any movie, it’s only this one that feels so charged. The end of my total lie of a childhood bedtime story. “And the whole twist in that movie, by the way, is a misunderstanding.” Dan let out a breath and leaned back into his chair like I’d just totally worn him out. “It’s not a misunderstanding, Jane. That was sabotage. By her mother.”

I leaned back in my chair. I was clenching my peanut M&M’s so hard that I could feel them melt against my palms.

“Is this the one where they’re old and then not old?” Nathan asked. “I found it confusing.”

“It’s the worst,” I said.

“How could you say that?” Dan replied. “It’s romantic and true and perfect. But this, and I’m sorry, Jane, it makes me feel absolutely nothing. I mean, Harry and Sally—pretty sure the names have been done, by the way.” And he rolled his eyes at Nathan. “They just meet and hook up because they’re in the same place? It’s not interesting.”

“Well, people don’t paddle around on a lake full of swans either. Did you know they had to raise those swans in that marsh or whatever just to get them to stay? That whole movie is just a big fake.” I was sweating by then. I could feel heat moving from my chest to my face. “Can we maybe get off this topic? Though I do feel so much more enlightened having had you mansplain The Notebook to me this morning.” I turned to Nathan, giving him his cue to ask Dan to leave so we could move on.

Nathan sat with his arms crossed, nodding. “Amy, what do you think of it?”

“I agree it’s not The Notebook ,” she said, and I suspected she hadn’t read it. She had that no-eye-contact energy of a kid who’s been called on in class and didn’t do the homework.

Nathan sighed. “Okay, I read this pretty quick, mainly because it was so cheap. Let me read it again and decide.”

“Fine,” I said, getting up from the table and looking at Dan. “So nice to see you again. Let’s consider our later appointment canceled.” I gave him a tight smile, my mean smile that I normally reserve for the third postal worker at the Brentwood post office. She vacillates between annoyance that I don’t use enough tape on my packages and exasperation that I use too much tape on my packages, and I stand there with my murder smile until she has corrected the situation and handed me the receipt, pointing out that I should fill out a survey at the bottom. “Oh, I will,” I tell her every time and never do.

I took the stairs down to my office because I didn’t want to have to stand there and wait for the elevator. My heart was beating with rage and my hands were sweating, like I was about to turn into the Hulk. I got to my office and steadied myself on my desk. This was my big break. The studio gave me actual money to buy a script and run a project. I was finally going to step into my life, shoulders back, maybe in a pantsuit, maybe in a dress. I hadn’t worked out the details.

“I’m sorry,” I heard him say, standing at my office door, and I thought, not for the first time, that security around here is really for shit and where the heck was Mandy.

I turned around. “Sorry? Seriously?” He was leaning on the doorjamb, and he did look sorry.

“I need the work, for sure,” he said, “but I cannot make that movie. And I might have, because I really do need the work.”

“You’ve said.”

“But I can’t let you make it. I mean, you know it’s crap.”

“Where’d you learn to apologize? This is really moving.”

“You’ve got this studio in your corner, you could make anything. You could put a real love story out into the world. Making that movie would be like building another strip mall. It’s fake love.”

“Oh, and you’re an expert on love too. How many love stories have you filmed?”

“Same as you. None.” He meant this as a barb.

“Ah, then I guess neither of us is an expert, so neither of us knows how that movie was going to turn out. Before you killed it.” My hands were balled up by my sides, and I forced myself to open them and place them on my hips because I was afraid I looked like a little kid having a tantrum. “Arrogant,” I said to my feet, all in one breath.

“What was that?” he asked. He took a step into my office, not in a threatening way but like he wanted to hear me more clearly.

“Arrogant,” I said again. “You’re arrogant. I should have known, the way you crossed the street like everyone should come to a screeching halt for you. I bet you use organic shaving cream that squeezes out of some kind of weird bamboo packaging. I bet you understand Jackson Pollock and make sure everyone knows.” He was looking at me like I was very close to going completely off the rails. It’s possible that he smirked. Whatever it was, it made me feel like he was about to laugh at me, and let me tell you that was not something I was going to be able to deal with on that particular day, so I said it: “I bet you went to Brown.”

He just looked at me. It was almost like he was seeing me for the first time. I stared back, waiting with my hands in fists again like a toddler. “Well,” he said. “Again. I’m sorry.” He put his hands up in mock surrender. “When I met you on the street, I didn’t realize. You’re completely insane.”

“Am not,” I said to solidify my role here as a toddler.

“Are too?” he said and actually laughed. “I’m thinking we call our date off? I’m just going to grab a quick organic shave and meet up with some of my Ivy League buddies instead, if that’s cool.”

“You’re not even my type.” I said it like it was a machine gun full of expletives. This spectacular disaster is why you don’t give your number to some random guy on the street.

“Well, that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me, crazy lady.” With hands up to shield himself from more of my violent words, he backed out of the room.