Chapter Nine Elise
Was there a trace of shock and hurt in Randall’s expression? I must be imagining it.
Randall is a commitment-averse playboy. A professional athlete with the face of a prince. He could trade me in for any number of women in that bar. And there were a lot who’d volunteer, practically flashing their chests to match the seductive smiles. Women and men.
But as Randall and I re-enter the bar holding hands, it feels right to conclude the evening the way we planned. Like me, he doesn’t carry the baggage of expectation. He gets it. Randall would never make me feel like shit the second I turn my attention to something that’s crucial for the future of my career.
Unlike Miles. I shake the thought, because that isn’t fair to Randall.
He’s not the one who eroded my confidence and mocked my dreams. That was Miles, my boyfriend from two years ago. When I couldn’t keep up with what he thought a “good girlfriend” should be, he blamed my career choices.
This is a hobby. There’s no reason to spend day and night at the theater.
Directing community theater isn’t a real job, Elise. Real jobs compensate you with something other than applause.
When are you going to grow up? If it was going to happen, it would have happened by now.
I was lonely, Elise. Can you blame me for finding comfort elsewhere?
You led me on, Elise. You never intended to work on our relationship.
Those were some of the last things he ever said to me. Miles accused me of never prioritizing him, never considering his dreams, never truly committing to our relationship.
And you know what? He was right. He deserved better, but so do I.
Following my dreams is a choice that comes with consequences. I don’t want to relive the disaster of my dating life, but remembering Miles’s unfaithfulness and contempt fortifies my determination. I’ve been honest with my lovers since.
With Randall, I never pretended this would be anything but casual. I don’t lead people on. We have a few more hours of fun and no one gets hurt.
Lily, who isn’t hiding her curiosity about “the talk,” pulls me to the bathroom as soon as we approach the group. At one end of the long row of sinks are three young women, sharing lipstick and opinions on how to determine if the guy you want to go home with isn’t a serial killer.
“Take a picture of his driver’s license,” one of them slurs loudly. “And text it to us.”
“What if he refuses? I would never give my private information to anyone. If he gets hacked, he’d blame me!”
It strikes me as fascinating, this correlation between female friendships, public bathrooms, and risk assessments. Maybe I can work out a scene in the play that—
“You walked in all lovey-dovey. Does that mean you’re going to keep seeing each other?” Lily interrupts my mental scene revision.
I make a sound between a snort and squeak—a sneark?—before declaring, “We are not lovey-dovey. I told him I’ll be too busy to keep seeing him. We’ll spend tonight together before going our separate ways.”
She raises a perfectly arched brow. “If you say so.”
I shrug. She doesn’t have to believe me for things to unfold as I intend. I’ve made myself clear. I don’t lead people on about what I’m capable of committing to a relationship. The answer is clear: nothing.
“Hand me your keys,” Lily states. “I’ll take your car and return it tomorrow.”
“We’ll stay till you’re ready to go. I’ll bring you home and meet up with Randall later.”
“That man is not going to wait a minute longer before he presses you against a wall.”
The memory of my body pressed against his insistent arousal must be telegraphed on my face.
“Oh, my god, you are so lucky!” she exclaims loudly, snagging the attention of the three women. “Hand me your keys, Elise.”
“Are you sure?”
She rolls her eyes, because it’s easier than repeating herself. I drop my keys in her upturned hand.
“You’re here with Randall Haughland!” One of the women from down the counter scrambles over, pulling her skirt down because it keeps riding up with each step. “He’s so hot! Is he nice?”
“Um, yeah. He’s very nice.”
“How did you two meet? How long have you been together?” another one asks.
“We’re not together,” I manage.
“Girls, you know who’s dying to hook up tonight? I bet he’d even volunteer his driver’s license. Gordon Lanski. Wanna meet him?”
I snort because Lily has acquired a new pastime called Break Gordon’s Balls. The five of us leave the bathroom together, a gaggle of women looking for fun on a random Thursday night.
The second I exit the bathroom, my evening’s version of fun is waiting outside. Randall reaches over and clasps my hand.
The other women swoon.
They can have him tomorrow.
***
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Haughland. They’re fully booked as well.”
We’re at the front desk of the Westin, which—along with two other hotels downtown—is hosting a landscaping and composting convention and therefore fully booked. The young man volunteered to make a few calls for us, only to confirm that nothing is available.
“Don’t look so sad,” I say to Randall, nudging him with my hip. He’s adorably disappointed, like the ice cream shop ran out of his favorite flavor. “Let me buy you a drink.”
He gives the front desk receptionist a nod of thanks and leads me to a corner of the lobby. “Come home with me tonight. I know that’s one of your rules—”
“Randall.” I interrupt him. “Let’s call it a night, OK? You must be exhausted after the game.”
“How about getting something to eat? I’m freaking starving for a cheeseburger,” he says like it occurred to him that food is the solution to disappointment. He’s not wrong. A greasy meal sounds like heaven.
“I know the place,” I say with a snicker.
While we drive to Jack & Jill, a popular North Columbus diner frequented by university students and shift workers, Randall seems thoughtful.
“This play you wrote, is it inspired by Regency plays?” he asks.
“Worse. It’s inspired by Shakespeare.”
He laughs. “The only Shakespeare I ever read was Hamlet for high school.”
I try not to cringe. “What did you think?”
“Don’t remember much from the SparkNotes, to be honest.”
No point hiding my cringe now. “You’re not alone. I’ve always thought Hamlet was a douche.”
“Wow, isn’t that like criticizing the G.O.A.T. of drama?”
“Goat?”
“It’s a sports term for greatest of all time.”
“Ah! See that’s Hamlet’s problem right there! He thinks he’s too good for criticism! What a douche.” We both chuckle at my unsolicited evaluation of the literary canon.
“I get the appeal of the Prince of Denmark,” I concede. “Theater will always make room for brooders with daddy issues and unfaithful mothers. And there’s no denying that the man has killer lines. But so many performances miss the part where Hamlet is aware of his ridiculousness. He could be funny instead of boring.”
“I’d have paid attention if my high school teacher described the play that way,” Randall offers.
I could rant for another ten minutes. When the play is torn apart to be one philosophical speech after another, it’s a snooze fest. And expecting teenagers to read it? Snooze and shudder.
“I don’t understand why high schools teach the tragedies when the comedies are so much more relevant for that age,” I say. “For instance, A Midsummer Night’s Dream is basically about sex, drugs, and foursomes.”
“You had me at sex.” The corner of his mouth tilts up in a crooked grin. “I bet you’re a great teacher.”
I know he means it to be a compliment, but all I can think about is how the one time I invited him to the college, we had sex behind a curtain. That was the most unprofessional thing I have ever done! And this is coming from someone who had to track an actor’s bowel movement schedule for a season. I shudder, unwilling to relive the details of that production.
My point is, Randall is a wonderful distraction I can no longer afford.
“Enough about me. What drew you to hockey?”
“What’s there not to love?” he says flippantly.
He parks in a rather seedy looking lot. Unfortunately for his fancy sports car, Jack & Jill does not have a valet service. We walk from where we parked to the diner in companionable silence. It’s a typical fifties-style eatery: retro décor, neon signs, vintage memorabilia. The waitress behind the counter looks up when the door jingles and points to some stools in front of her.
“Can we get a booth?” Randall asks me, his eyes shifting. He’s probably self-conscious about being recognized and disturbed. I recall the girls in the bathroom who interrogated me, a perfect stranger, about Randall’s dating life.
“How about the one at the end?” I offer. We slip into the vinyl booth and grab the laminated menus perched by a napkin holder.
Suddenly, my hankering for bacon and eggs overtakes all else, including greasy cheeseburgers.
“Can I get you something to drink while you decide?” the waitress asks.
“I’ll have black tea with milk, please,” I say automatically, which is what I always have with breakfast food.
“Really? Not even a milkshake?” Randall asks.
“Will you let me have a sip of yours?” I ask.
“Your largest chocolate milkshake, please,” he addresses the waitress. “And…” He looks at me. “Still up for cheeseburgers, or do you want to check the menu?”
“I’m having the breakfast special. Scrambled eggs and bacon with a stack of pancakes, please.”
Randall nods in approval. “I’ll have that and a cheeseburger,” he says putting both our menus away.
When we’re alone, I lean over the table. “By the way, you never answered my question about what drew you to hockey.”
“And you didn’t tell me about your play.”
I hadn’t meant to be evasive, but since that’s the reason I can’t see him anymore, why dwell on it? If he’s genuinely curious, I’m happy to practice the elevator speech.
“It follows the structure and themes of Shakespeare’s Macbeth, set in eighties corporate America,” I state. “The lead is a second-generation Asian American woman who topples her mentor in order to take over a telecommunications company. But the competition only pushes her further into darkness, till everything she creates for the company is some version of the people she eliminated along the way.”
He blinks slowly, seeming to process my description. “What’s that eighties corporate America film with Michael Douglas?” Randall taps the Formica table. “Wolf of Wall Street!”
“Exactly!”
“Will there be sex, drugs, and foursomes?” he asks.
I make a show of scrambling in my purse and hold my finger up. “Give me a sec. I’ll write that down.” When I stop my stupid ruse, we’re both grinning.
“Your turn. Why hockey?”
“I couldn’t do law.”
That takes me a minute to consider. “Family of lawyers.”
“Yup.”
“You know, there are more than two options.”
“Not for me,” he says cryptically.
“Did you grow up around here?”
“No. I’m Canadian. From a fishing village in British Columbia, not too far from Vancouver.”
“A real fishing village? With burly, weather-worn fishermen stomping around in salt-crusted boots? Docks with fishing nets and sea gulls,” I say dramatically. “Do you own one of those big yellow hats?”
“And plastic overalls to match, obviously,” he jokes back. “You’ve given fishing villages a lot of thought.”
“It seems so quaint and charming. Did you grow up fishing?”
“Not in the way you’re imagining. Steveston Village isn’t quaint or charming. Crews go deep-sea fishing from there.”
“Do you miss home?”
He shrugs ambivalently so I drop my line of questioning.
Our breakfast-inspired feast arrives, and we dig in, chatting about random things. Randall talks about locker room pranks and his vacation in Costa Rica last summer. I mention my one failed season as a producer on a cruise ship and the perils of directing a kid’s show featuring a purple dinosaur.
When our stomachs are full and the third refill of tea gets cold, the conversation lulls. Maybe I should be disappointed that we didn’t get our final sex session, but this meal is more chatter than we had through our last seven or eight dates combined. The number hardly matters, now that it’s time to say goodbye.
Before I begin the awkward farewells, Randall leans over.
“I’ve got an idea.”
“About?”
“About us.”
I barely quell a groan of discomfort because the last thing I want to do is explain myself again.
“Randall, I don’t think—”
“Hear me out. You already have my number and I have yours. Let’s be friends. No strings or dates or whatever. Give me a call when your play goes live and I’ll, I don’t know, read about Shakespeare foursomes and call you if I have questions.”
Friends. If you had asked me earlier today, I wouldn’t think it was possible. But after how quickly and easily the last few hours with Randall went by, it appears we are more than capable of staying casual. Keeping in touch platonically won’t be a big deal.
“I won’t be around for the next few months, so it’s not like we can hang out,” I remind him.
“Hockey playoffs are around the corner. We’re both busy. I just mean, don’t throw my number away, and I won’t sell yours to a phone marketing agency.”
That makes me laugh.
“I, um, I really do want to be friends,” he says, gaze lowered. “Apart from my teammates, I haven’t gotten to know anyone from this city.”
“But you’re out all the time! And not just with teammates.”
He tilts his head and rubs his knuckles on a stubble-rough jaw. “Elise Chen, have you been social media stalking me?”
“Lily, not me,” I protest. “OK, a teensy bit me.”
“Well, then you know I’m not gonna be pining for you,” he says with a wink.
An obnoxious snort escapes, and I place a hand over my mouth. Just because I can’t imagine Randall ever pining for anyone, least of all me, I shouldn’t snort like a farm animal, either.
Leaning on his forearms, he dons a slight frown. “It doesn’t sit well that we’ll never talk to each other again.”
“You’re right, it doesn’t,” I agree automatically.
Tonight was fun. There’s no point acting like strangers if we bump into each other again. But I have to be clear about the parameters of this arrangement.
“Friends without benefits?” I ask.
He rolls his eyes as if I said the most obvious thing in the world. Nonetheless, he confirms it by repeating, “Friends without benefits.”