Chapter Five A Pretend Hot Person
Chapter Five
A Pretend Hot Person
Beverly
I stand, very uncomfortably, in the lobby of a ritzy restaurant.
Ritzy.
There’s a better adjective for it, I’m sure. Ritzy feels like an amateur word used by people who don’t go to ritzy restaurants. Except, well, I don’t go to ritzy restaurants.
Last night, I was in a shopping center restaurant with Finch, lit by harsh fluorescent overhead lighting, hunched like a gremlin over a plastic container loaded with oily noodles, chicken, and sesame seeds.
It was a perfectly unritzy night until my phone buzzed with a message.
I thought maybe the text was from my nana, asking what I wanted for dinner tomorrow night when my flight landed.
I was wrong.
Unknown number: Is this Beverly Lark?
Beverly: Hi! Yes. Who is this?
Unknown number: My name is Jimmy Verso, Griffin Harvey’s manager. He’d like to set up a dinner with you.
I suddenly grew very lightheaded.
I must have misread.
I shoved my phone over to Finch as if a ghoul had crawled out of it. He simply stared.
“It’s another scam,” I breathed, pulling my knees up to my chest. The plastic chair squeaked under me. “Right?”
Finch squinted, unhooking thin glasses from his shirt pocket and then sliding them onto the end of his nose. He mouthed the text as he read it, finally ending with a hmm.
“Hmm?” I echoed back.
“Ask him.”
“Ask the strange number if he’s a scam? Do people admit that?”
Finch shrugged, lifting his glasses to the top of his bald head. “Ones who are bad at their job.”
I slid the phone back in front of me, hovering my fingers over the screen before typing Are you a scam?
Finch laughed. I laughed with him.
How funny this situation is. A real riot.
My phone buzzed, and a new text read I wish.
“Huh,” Finch said as I slouched in my chair.
“What do you make of that?”
Finch repeated, “Huh.”
“Are you just saying that, or is your hearing aid actually failing?”
My phone buzzed again.
Unknown number: Are you free next week?
I stared, then typed back No.
Finch chuckled.
“What?” I ask. “I’m not a liar.”
The phone vibrated once more, shifting its position across the table, like a stalker trudging one step closer to me.
Unknown number: How about this week?
Dinner.
With Griffin Harvey.
I could have asked, How did you get this number? but instead, I texted back: No.
“No?” Finch gawked.
“What’s the point? I’m going home.” I twirled noodles around my chopsticks, but from the corner of my eye, I could still see the open text and the three bubbles indicating a pending response. I locked the phone, and the screen went black.
“You’re asking that question too much,” Finch said.
“What question?”
Little wrinkles above Finch’s lip pinched. “ ‘What’s the point?’ I’m tired of hearing that from you. That’s a quitter’s attitude, and you, dear girl, are not a quitter.”
“C’mon, there is no point,” I pleaded. “I can try to pitch to Starlet and Connection, but what they’re asking for…they didn’t budge on an extension or moving to next year…”
“So?”
“It’s too tight. I’m done. Finished. I’m moving home to figure out my life, and that’s that. Curtain drop, baby.”
“If a curtain dropped onstage, you’d keep performing.”
“Yeah, because it’s hilarious to have a puppet be scared of the dark.”
“I’m serious, Bev. At least hear him out. You can make it. We’ll make it work.”
I exhaled, setting aside my chopsticks. “Okay…if this is real, then what the heck is Griffin Harvey trying to pull here, anyway? What if this is some weird…thing?” I ask. “Some PR stunt?”
He tilts his head to the side in pity. “Oh, Bev…”
“I’m just saying…” But the words fade off. I don’t want to be in the public eye again. My breakup with Beau was bad enough. I’ve finally gotten lost in the mix, unimportant and forgotten, swallowed up by the internet and pop culture.
Thank God.
Finch straightened his crooked posture and tilted that dimpled chin in the air.
“If this is real,” he said, “then you’re going to dinner with Griffin Harvey.”
“My flight is tomorrow.”
“I’ll book you a new one.”
“I’m all packed.”
“Who cares?”
“Finch…”
I rested my elbows on the table, and my chopsticks rolled off its surface, clattering to the floor. I bent to pick them up, but Finch whipped his shaking hand out to stop me. It’s the fastest that man has moved in ten years.
“You’re going to that dinner with Griffin Harvey.”
My phone buzzed again, but this time it didn’t stop.
It wasn’t a text but a phone call. We sat there in silence as it continued to vibrate on the sticky table next to our empty packets of soy sauce.
Before I could send it to voicemail, Finch snatched the phone, answered it, then slapped it back into my palm.
It was a call from that same number, and that conversation with Jimmy Verso landed me here.
Now, twenty-four hours later, I squint into the dimly lit lobby—a far cry from the bright lights of last night’s restaurant.
Wall sconces illuminate black tile floors, velvet chairs, and deep maroon walls.
A curtain conceals the short hall from the main seating area, like even being past the front doors doesn’t guarantee viewing the goods.
Thankfully, I have a reservation under “Jimmy,” so the waitress leads me past the hostess stand without assessing me too much, or maybe it’s just too dark in here. Honestly, how is she navigating without a flashlight?
I don’t belong in a place like this. I’m wearing the nicest dress I own: a yellow linen knee-length I thrifted that’s hanging together through many patchworked sewing jobs. It’s pretty—a little too boob-y for me—but not ritzy, and I’m still 90 percent limbs and pale skin.
I should have taken that flight home. I would be in Elk Grove right now, watching some reality show with Momma, hearing Uncle Greg’s rants about the wandering goats at Daisy’s house, and huddling under a quilt in front of a crackling fireplace.
My hands grip the strap of my purse as I navigate around a corner to the back of the restaurant. My family won’t believe I’m here. Rob would have an aneurism if he knew I was meeting with Griffin Harvey. My brother idolizes him, but I barely know who the guy is or what he wants from me.
“Just be yourself,” Finch said.
“I’m gonna use my Bernie voice,” I responded. “Maybe it’ll break the ice a little.”
“Please don’t do that.”
“You can’t stop me.”
Circular inlets house velvet booths. Braided tassels fall from drawn-back curtains, exposing polished mahogany tables.
Somewhere between my focusing on walking in heels, trying to make out muffled murmurs behind curtains, and mentally threatening my own breasts to stay inside the dress, we halt in front of a table.
Sitting in the booth, fiddling with a small glass of bourbon, is Griffin Harvey.
My heart leaps into my throat, and oh no, oh no, oh no, I’ve made a huge mistake.
Griffin is in a black Henley with rolled-up cuffs, displaying his sleeves of foliage and bird tattoos.
His analog watch face is black, and the strap is a thick leather that probably smells just as good as his boots did the other night.
His wild brown hair hangs heavy on his shoulders, partially tied back.
He’s dressed like a real hot person comfortable with his surroundings, and I’m standing here like a pretend hot person in wobbly heels.
“Beverly, right?” he asks. The sound of my name on his lips feels too gruff.
“Yes, hi. Right. I’m Beverly. You’re Griffin,” I stumble out, but it accidentally comes across like I’m mocking him. If he notices, he doesn’t say anything.
Griffin stands, towering over me with broad shoulders and thick arms that could crush me if we hugged. Not that we ever would. A little line appears between his eyebrows, as if he could read my mind and he’s confused by it.
He holds out his palm, and I slip mine inside for a quick shake. His hand is large and warm. A little clammy, too, but oh wait, no, that’s just mine. We linger for half a second—enough for me to question why we’re still doing it—before I slip my hand out of his and lower it back down to my side.
The server leaves us. I almost want to call her back to be our third wheel in this pseudomeeting thing. Some man in the booth across from ours eats alone. Maybe I’ll invite him instead.
“Take a seat,” Griffin instructs. “Please.”
“Sure thing” is what I answer because that’s casual, right?
“How are you?”
“Good, good.” I smile as he sits. He doesn’t smile back, instead bringing his drink to his lips.
It’s awkward. Horrifically awkward.
Be yourself.
I clear my throat. “Nice to be away from your crotch this time.”
Griffin chokes mid-sip. I smile. He gives a twitching thing back. Might be a smile under that thick beard. Could be irritation.
He sets his drink on the napkin and smooths it back with his thumb.
“So, you’re reviving Birds on the Block,” he says. All right, apparently Mr. Harvey prefers to just skip all the conversational foreplay.
“That’s right.”
“And how’s it going?”
My stomach drops. I adjust my posture.
“Good. Sort of. Mostly.”
“Have you always wanted to make children’s television?”
“Yes. Well, it’s kinda in my blood, I guess?”
He lifts an eyebrow. An unspoken Go on. But embarrassment sluices down my spine, so instead I do the only thing I know how to, which is to not talk about me.
“What about you?” I counter.
“What about me?”
“Music. Is it going…good?” Oh jeez. You should have said Is it going well? you uncultured swine. “Have you always wanted to do…music?”
“Uh, yeah,” he says, leaning back as if struck by my question. Like he didn’t expect me to ask. “Though, that’s not quite as interesting as puppets, I’m sure.”
“I think it’s great.”
“Yeah?”
“Well, I haven’t exactly listened to your music a ton”—at all—“but I always think it’s great when people just go for it, y’know?” I add a little punch, as if punctuating my thought.