Chapter 6 Elijah #2
The Lazy Wingmen approach, grinning. Silently singing “We Three Married Men of Hollywood are Assholes.” Well, I don’t need their smug married-people help tonight.
Cleo is about to take a bite of my aunt’s rugelach when she notices the three exceptionally handsome dickheads advancing toward her.
And in a move that makes me fall in love with her just a little bit, she chooses to stuff the entire crescent-shaped cookie into her mouth before they arrive.
“Hey, assholes,” I say, heading them off at the pass. “This is my date, Cleo. Go away.”
“We aren’t going away,” Shane Miller, superstar actor with hair that stands up on its own, says. “Hi, I’m Shane. So you’re Elijah’s date?” He mumbles into his tumbler as he takes a sip of whiskey. “You know he has all twenty of his original fingers and toes, right?”
“Oh, yeah,” she says without missing a beat. “His digits are legit.”
“Have you seen how his shoes fit his feet?” Nico Todd says, yawning. “Exactly the right size.”
“Oh, is this a comedy bit?!” Cleo is way too delighted, and I have no idea how she got that it’s a bit already.
They aren’t that funny.
They aren’t funny at all.
“Have you ever seen one of this guy’s movies?” mutters Alex Vega as he coughs. Guy’s an exceptionally talented director who is not as successful as he could be if he’d lower his idiotic standards and direct one of my movies. “They have a beginning and an end.”
“Okay, this was fun,” I say. “My girl’s gotta eat.”
“I like how both of his eyes are on the front of his face,” she says as I take her hand and lead her away from those jackals.
They laugh, and I hear Nico humming the Wedding March.
I hope they finally agree to work for me one day, so I can fire them.
Placing the plate full of food down on an empty table, I point to a chair and direct Cleo to sit in it.
It is alarming how pleased I am that she does so, without hesitation.
She looks up at me, eyebrows arched, smirking.
She’s about to point out that she doesn’t have any utensils when I present the fork, knife, and spoon I had put in my pocket.
Take that, Curly. She does take it. She takes the fork and starts shoveling mashed potato and gravy into her mouth.
“I met your parents,” she tells me with her mouth full.
“Oh, yeah?”
“They’re still good friends with your ex-wife’s parents?”
So she remembers that? That’s interesting.
“Yes, they’re still good friends. That’s why they’re here tonight.
” I do not want to talk about my parents, and I really don’t want to talk about my ex-wife.
“You want something from the bar?” I ask my fake date while placing a napkin on the table in front of her.
Bam. I got that for you too. How you like me now?
She nods and frowns.
Before she can answer, I say, “Amaretto sour with Sprite, no egg white?”
She frowns and then nods again.
Same drink. She still likes the same drink my bubbe likes.
The cocktail my bubbe used to drink at Studio 54 with Mick Jagger, if she is to be believed.
As cool as my paternal grandma is, I must erase her from my mind tonight.
She does not belong in there with fantasy images of Cleo Jones naked and the half-remembered sound of her moaning into my mouth in a dark hallway.
I step up to the open bar and realize there’s an even more miserable schmuck standing next to me.
Garrett Malone, Oscar-winning screenwriter and fellow divorced dad.
I hear he has writer’s block. Maybe he’ll take this shitty rewrite job.
“Greetings, Mr. Malone,” I say as he picks up a pint of Guinness.
“Oh, hey, Abrams. I’m not rewriting your crappy Christmas project” is his reply. “Happy holidays.” He grins at me before patting me on the back and walking away.
I flip him the Christmas bird.
How does everyone in town already know about my shitty project? …Josh Steinberg is telling everyone so no one will help me. That fucker.
I will win this battle. I will figure out how to fix that script myself. I will come up with amazing, brilliant notes while pacing around my office and talking to no one. And then I will hire someone who is impressed by my notes. Blammo. I win.
I order Cleo’s Amaretto sour and a double scotch on the rocks for myself.
I will enjoy this one last drink while acting as if Cleo is my date so my family and my ex-wife and her new husband don’t think I am totally bereft of joy in my life.
And then I will return to the office by Uber.
I will put my thinking cap on. I am a genius film producer who can come up with brilliant high-concept ideas while drunk and jerking it to thoughts of my former film school rival in the men’s room.
Returning to the table, I find Alyssa and Barry chatting with Cleo while she eats.
I like that she hasn’t stopped eating. Why do I like that so much?
So many of the actresses and models I’ve dated wouldn’t eat solid foods when I took them out for dinner because they were afraid of getting anything stuck between their teeth.
But Cleo? Cleo has cranberry sauce in the corner of her lips, and I want to lick it off.
My ex-wife is wearing a very tasteful off-white cocktail dress and what I know she considers to be whimsical earrings.
A gold Christmas tree hangs from one ear, a Star of David from the other.
She does look beautiful, and I’m happy she’s happy to be married to the guy who created the TV show that gave me the start to my mediocre acting career.
And weirdly, I don’t hate Barry Weiner for boning my ex-wife and calling my son buddy, even though that’s my thing.
Calling Paxton buddy, that is, not boning my ex-wife. That hasn’t been my thing for years.
I place Cleo’s cocktail on the table next to her and then rub her back. It’s such a good date move, and I am very proud of myself for doing this. I am also proud of myself for confirming that she is, in fact, not wearing a bra.
“Elijah,” Alyssa says, “your lovely date tells us you knew each other in film school.”
“Until she dropped out halfway through the program, yes.”
“Well, I for one am glad that you dropped out to move to New York,” Barry says, placing his hand on his chest. “If you hadn’t I wouldn’t have had the good fortune to see you in The Royal Tenenbaums: the Musical on Broadway seven years ago.
What a quirky, delightful treat that was!
You were fabulous. Fantastic singing voice. I remember putting you on a list.”
We all know what list he put her on. He put her on a list of actresses he wanted to bone.
“Thank you so much,” Cleo says, and she doesn’t look like she’s inwardly cringing at all. “Elijah’s glad I dropped out of film school too, because without me there he was finally able to win some awards.” She beams up at me. “So I heard.”
“Yes, like the Oscar for Best Film,” I say, beaming right back at her.
“What a quirky, delightful surprise that was!”
“Well, we’ll let you two enjoy some alone time,” Alyssa says politely. “It was so nice meeting you, Cleo.” She touches my arm and says, “Have fun.” Her tone is only a little patronizing.
“Congratulations and mazel tov and happy holidays, again!” Cleo says, waving at them.
Barry gives me a little pat on the shoulder, and I don’t want to punch him even a little bit.
Cleo looks up at me again. I don’t remove my hand from her back.
I point to the corner of my mouth, indicating that she has food there, in the corner of her own mouth.
Instead of using a napkin to wipe it off like any non-demonic adult who isn’t trying to make me hard at a family party would do, she slowly licks her lips while locking eyes with me.
God dammit. She’s playing hardballs. That is the only way she has ever played.
Nope.
I am winning this round.
I unhand her, polish off my scotch, and button up my suit jacket. “I think it’s time for me to go.”
“Okie doke,” she says.
“Dad! Hey, Dad!” I hear my son shout from across the yard.
“Dad! Miss Cleo!” He waves at us. He’s standing under a jacaranda tree with Shane’s daughter, Summer.
She’s older than him, but she is trouble.
Standing there, flipping her hair. I do not like the looks of this.
“Come over here!” Paxton shouts over Bing Crosby’s pleasant crooning. Summer waves us over too.
“Let’s go!” Cleo says, dabbing at the corners of her mouth with a napkin now. “I’m done eating. That was really good—thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
I pull the chair out for her and look down.
God dammit, you still have a smokin’ wagon.
“Thank you,” she says.
Did I say that out loud?
“You’re welcome again.” We make our way over to the jacaranda tree and Paxton and Summer. “Did you drive here?”
“I did. I should probably hang out here for a while before driving home.”
“Okay. Well, Paxton’s bedtime is nine, but Alyssa will probably let him stay up later tonight.”
“Okay. It was nice seeing you again, Dummy. Even though you’re still kind of a dick.”
“Right back at you, Curly.”
Summer and Paxton wave us forward, like aircraft marshallers directing a plane on the tarmac. Laughing, they hold their hands up and shout out for us to stop. We do. “Look up!” Paxton says gleefully.
We look up.
There’s mistletoe hanging from a branch.
Shit.
But also—fuck.
I feel like a crotchety old guy in a Scooby-Doo episode—I would have gotten away from her if it weren’t for those meddling kids!
Because I know even before I turn to face Cleo, even before I hook my index finger under her chin, tilting her face up to mine.
Even before she looks up at me through those dark eyelashes and holds on to my lapels with both hands, rising onto her tiptoes.
Even before I lean down to press my lips to hers and she parts her lips that tiny, monumental bit, that I’m not leaving this woman.
Not yet.
But I do need another drink.