Chapter 31 #2
The video opens. It’s not well lit. The camera is shaky, and then Johnny’s unshaven face fills the frame.
At least, I think it’s Johnny’s face. It’s more like if you fed a photo of John Brandt and the weird old guy from Back to the Future and had AI morph them together with the specific instruction to make sure he still looks hot.
He is disheveled. He looks tired. He looks sad.
He keeps sniffling and coughing. But he still looks really, impossibly handsome.
“Ohhh,” he moans. “Ohhh-livia. I can’t sleep without you.
I watched Hot Tub Time Machine 2 again because it reminds me of you.
Because I miss you. And I fucked up. But not as much as they fucked up, because where the fuck is John Cusack?
!” He waves his hand in front of the camera. “Sorry. Sorry for yelling.”
That’s it. That’s the end of the video.
I click on the file labeled Please.
Johnny’s lit by a table lamp near his bed, but he’s curled up, holding a pillow, looking like he’s in pain.
I can hear Bonnie Raitt singing “I Can’t Make You Love Me” in the background.
“Whyyyyy?” he sobs. “Why did they make it so sad?!” He wipes his nose with the back of his hand.
“This is the saddest song I ever heard!” He lets out a plaintive wail.
“Nooooooo! Please don’t leave me. Ohhhh.
Oh. Olivia. I’m so tired. I can’t sleep.
I’m not sick! I just can’t sleep without you. ”
I open the video marked You.
It looks like Johnny’s lying on his stomach.
His face is lit by a computer screen. I can hear my voice in the background.
“You’re soooooo pretty.” Oh God. He’s watching my YouTube videos.
“You’re even pretty in real life, but you look so pretty in these videos, baby.
I tried to go to sleep with the videos on, but your body’s not here.
” He pouts. “I need your body here.” He has a coughing fit.
“I’m just thirsty.” And that’s the end of the video.
There’s another MP4 labeled Shoe.
He’s sitting up in bed again, resting against several pillows.
“Hey. I took a Theraflu to make me sleep, but it’s not working.
I’m watching The Red Shoes. I remember watching you and watching…
watching you…watch it…when you were younger.
” He pauses to cough. “You’d do the dance steps, and it was so cute.
But…” He has a sneezing fit and pauses the recording.
It starts again. He’s looking at the TV screen and holding the phone in his lap, facing up.
“Shit. This Lermontov guy is such an asshole. He treats her like an algorithm he’s trying to perfect.
Not a person he cares about. Am I like that? Is that what I’ve been doing?”
Another jump cut to: “And this Julian guy? Julian?! Seriously? The composer’s name is Julian? Eww. Lermontov is trying to control Vicky’s art. Julian is trying to control Vicky’s life. But nobody’s asking what Vicky wants!”
Jump cut. And he’s sobbing. I guess Vicky just died. “I’m sorry we never let you watch those dance competitions! Olivia! I’m sorry! Ahhhhh, I need you to forgive me! Oliviaaaaaaahhhhh!”
Wow. He really is a mess.
I’m not sure why he didn’t just text these videos to me. But I guess this is less of an overperformance than, say, projecting the videos onto the night sky. The briefcase delivery was a nice touch.
I cannot get to him fast enough.
For real.
I order an Uber, and the closest one is…twenty minutes away? I have never had to wait that long for a car here. I can see how having a driver’s license and a car right now would be helpful.
I text Callie to let her know where I’m going. I text John so he knows I’m coming. I don’t hear back from him. I have the driver wait for me at a Whole Foods while I buy ingredients for my mom’s special soup.
When I get to John’s house, I ring the doorbell in case Gracia or any of his other employees are there. I knock three times, the way Johnny always did when he came to our house. No answer.
I am so glad I still have his house key.
And then I pause before pressing down on the thumbpiece of the door handle, because the voice of reason in my brain is all: Wait, girl, just wait!
What if this is all some kind of ruse to get you to come to his house?
What if some surprise grand gesture is waiting for you behind that door?
Take a breath, get your shit together, and make sure you look hot and lovable when you enter.
Okay, thanks, brain—I’ll do that.
I take a deep breath and open the door.
I am not met with a surprise grand gesture.
I am met with a series of very sophisticated-sounding beeps.
The security system.
I drop my shopping bag and go to the security keypad. I guess now we’ll know if John really remembered my birth date. I punch in a six-digit code, plus the Off button.
The system turns off.
He got my birth date right.
“John?”
A few table lamps are on in the living room and foyer, and the kitchen lights are set to dim. The house is eerily quiet.
The door to his bedroom is closed. I knock on it quietly before opening. “John?”
It’s dark. The room is lit only by the TV. An image is paused on the screen. A bearded Ryan Gosling in the rain.
I hear a grunt from the bed.
He’s alive.
I go over to the side of the bed and kneel on the floor. He’s sleeping on his stomach. He looks like an infant, so sound asleep. I place my hand on his forehead, and the shock of my cool skin against his hot skin wakes him.
“Johnny. You’re burning up.”
“You’re here.” He holds my hand with a weak grip.
“I’m here. You’re sick.”
“It’s not the flu. It’s you.”
“Well, that’s just rude.”
“It’s not having you.”
“Who says you don’t have me?” I ask.
“I took more Theraflu to knock me out.”
“You sound dehydrated. Have you been drinking water?”
“It’s still not over…” he mumbles. I think he’s quoting The Notebook.
I press a kiss to his warm forehead. “It’s not over.” I sit on the bed next to him, holding his hand in my lap. His face is smushed against a pillow. “I just want to say one thing, and then I’m going to make soup.”
“Okay.”
I try to formulate the words in my head so I get it right.
After a pause, he mutters, “Did you say it yet?”
“No. Did you hear me say something?”
“I dunno.”
“Okay, well, this might not be the optimal time to say this to you, but I need to say it. I think I know what the story of Giselle is really about now…”
“Hmmm.”
“A part of us has to die before we can really be in love. The person we fall in love with protects us and brings us back from the parts that are dead or broken, even if we can’t be together on the same plane of existence.
Even if we’re different. That’s what makes love real.
But I don’t need you to understand me. I just want to be with you.
I love you. I’m here for you. I’m going to make you soup. Don’t get up.”
He squeezes my hand and mumbles something. I only understand the words “swan” and “time.” He is delirious. He is asleep.
I am in John’s bed when I wake up and realize that he’s sitting next to me, watching me.
“Beautiful dreamer,” he sings, “wake unto me.”
Sunlight streams through the window. His eyes are clear. I reach up to touch his face. He is no longer feverish.
“Damn, that soup really works.”
Last night, I made him sit up in bed and spoon-fed him a bowl of Steph’s Sickie-Poo Soup, and then he went right back to sleep.
“I think something was leaving my system. I think it was fear.”
“Or you were sick.”
“Don’t be cynical.”
“Okay.”
John holds my hand. “I love you.”
Damn, that soup really, really works.
He strokes my arm. “I’ve been falling in love with you for most of my life, but I didn’t know it until two years ago when I saw you dance in Pittsburgh.
I made a last-minute decision to go to Swan Lake.
I didn’t tell anyone. I had a meeting with my parents in Cleveland and was supposed to return to Palo Alto that night, but I decided to stop by Pittsburgh because I just…
wanted to see you,” he says. “But I didn’t know if you’d want to see me, so…
That’s when I realized that I wanted to marry you.
That’s when I realized how beautiful and important ballet is and how important it is for you to do it.
It was an epiphany. I was going to go say hi to you backstage, but Julian was there.
I figured it just wasn’t the right time. Yet.”
Gasp. “Oh my God. The lavender bouquet.”
He smiles, obviously surprised that I remember. “Yes.”
Of course I remember. I thought about that lavender bouquet for a long time.
I kept it long after it had dried out and gathered dust. I had fantasies about the mystery man who left me that bouquet.
“That was you? …Of course, that was you. Todd, the guy who was at the backstage door that night, told me I had a handsome secret admirer. I had no idea who it could be. I’m not kidding—I kept hoping the guy would come back. Or at least identify himself.”
He shrugs. “I’m the guy. I’m back.”
I pull him down to me and kiss his beautiful face. “I’m your girl. Here I am.”
“I’m stepping down as advisor at Brainy Biz so I can spend more time with you.
And I’m going to focus on working with Merrick on the food-tech business instead of finding new ones to invest in for the rest of the year.
I’ll have to go to Europe maybe once a month, but for the rest of it, I’ll be here with you. ”
I sit up and wipe a tear from my eye. “That’s quite a gesture, John.”
“It’s the logical thing to do.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small box, handing it to me. Super chill. “This is called an eternity ring.”
I open it, and it is honestly the prettiest ring I have ever seen.
“I want to buy you an engagement ring so badly. And not for butt reasons. Although I’m aware that was probably a joke,” he says.
“I just want to marry you. I want to marry you and be married to you and stay married to you. But I will wait for you. I will wait for you to be ready. I will wait for you to choose the life you want. And I will wait until you think I’m good enough for you. ”
“Johnny.” I grab his shirt and pull him to me for another kiss. “You have always been good enough for everyone. Maybe too good for us mere mortals to understand. A pain in the ass, but the good kind. And I don’t mean that in the engagement-ring kind of way.”
“You’re my girl,” he says, sliding the eternity ring onto my finger.
“You’re the guy.”