The Road Trip Rewind

Chapter 18 - Rocco

Chapter 18

Rocco

Thursday, December 29–Friday, December 30, 2016

Our ultimate punishment for screwing around in the past: Piper.

Here.

At Lanie’s party.

Acting in this movie with me. Bea’s passion project, her life’s work. Her apology and her ode. And Piper and I, we’re playing her goddamn parents. Kissing on screen—and off?

I could vomit right now.

And Tom, just casually tossing this mystical listicle idea around, like he’s talking about finding a lucky twenty-dollar bill. Completely cavalier, so nonchalant about the whole thing. His hawk eyes solely on the golden nostalgia cash cow.

It’s all confusing as hell. Honestly, I’d hop in Delilah and go straight back to ’99 if I could. Stay put this time. That seems far easier and more desirable than this.

Why? Why didn’t I stop this from happening before it ever started?

I should have taken the article from him. Should have made sure it was still in the car when he got out, whatever it took. Knocked on Tom’s door the next morning, camped out on his porch until it was safely back in our possession.

But I didn’t. And now . . . here we are.

Bea backs out of Dylan’s office, her shoulders shaking. She takes off down the hall without a backward glance. Lost, seemingly, in the labyrinth of Lanie’s palace, because she’s heading in the wrong direction—back to the center of the party when the only place we should be headed for is the front door.

I’m not ready to see Piper again; to stand near her as everyone else eagerly looks on, watching. I had felt it, their beady eyes, the palpable buzz while we’d watched the footage with Lanie. And why wouldn’t they buzz? It’s dream PR. Good for everyone involved. Just like Tom had hoped.

I don’t want any of that, though.

I just want Bea.

I pick up my pace and follow her, a smile tight on my lips—probably more rigor mortis than party fabulous—as I weave through the crowd, nodding and waving to vaguely familiar faces from set.

She spots the throngs ahead in the main room, hugs tight to the wall. We’re nearly out of the room, the shimmering foyer mirage-like, so close, when she appears. Straight ahead. Piper. An impassable hurdle. Bea stops in her tracks, lightly panting. I close in a few seconds after, step up beside her. Close, but not too close.

“Ah, at last we meet again,” Piper says, eyes on me, taking a step closer. “I’ve been looking everywhere. For you, that is.” She reaches out a hand, lightly rubs my lower back.

I want to flinch away, but I keep my composure. To be honest, it sort of does still feel inherently natural—like an old mitt you spent countless hours sleeping on, holding a baseball for maximum breaking in. No matter what shiny new glove you may get as you grow older, that previous one always still fits like . . . well . . . a glove. Yours.

“Can we chat for a minute?” Piper asks, edging in closer. I can smell spearmint on her breath, just as I remember. She’d been a relentless gum chewer. Minty fresh every hour of the day.

I can’t dissect any of this, not tonight. Not with Bea by my side. I can feel her staring at me with straight displeasure and confusion, rightfully so. She deserves to leave this hellscape that’s somehow our new reality.

And I want to leave with her. If she’ll have me.

“Let’s . . . catch up tomorrow? I’m sort of feeling a little, uh, bubbly gut. You know how it is. Too many mini crabcakes, I think. Afraid I might get the runs.” Jesus, Rocco! Major TMI, even for a lie. Surely I could have thought of a less off-putting excuse?

“Yikes,” Piper says, grimacing. “Sorry to hear it. Tomorrow’s perfectly fine. Coffee at Pat and Lorraine’s? I haven’t been there in years. That was such a favorite of ours.”

“Sounds good, yeah.” Anything to wrap this up. “I’ll, uh, text you in the morning.”

Piper leans in all the way and . . . kisses me on the cheek. Slow but firm, with a little light suction at the end to cap it off. My skin tingles as she pulls away.

“Get home safe. You sticking around, Beatrix?” She asks in a benign way, looking over at Bea for the first time since we nearly ran into her. So casually that maybe she really is just trying to be polite—no jealousy radar pinging.

“No, heading out. I have an early day tomorrow, lots of exciting housework to do, you know how it goes.” There’s a sarcastic lilt to her voice; Piper obviously does not know how that goes. I doubt she’s ever scrubbed a toilet in her life.

Bea grabs for my arm then, a clear dominance move. Piper doesn’t seem to notice, already flitting off to another circle. She’d always been like that at parties, talking to everyone and no one at the same time. The goal was to be seen, with very few exceptions.

I turn toward the front door, steering Bea with me. “For the love of everything, let’s please get out of here. You still want to come back with me, I hope?”

Bea doesn’t respond, but she keeps her arm tucked against mine as we walk out through the door and down the front path to where my car sits in the circular driveway. Our driver for the night is posted up against the trunk, smoking a cigarette as he chats with another driver two cars down the line. Not expecting us to dip this early.

“I’ll make it right tomorrow,” I say, coming to a stop a few feet away from the car. I turn to face her, taking both of her hands in mine. Desperate for something, anything from her. Desperate to know she understands. I didn’t ask for this. This wasn’t me. At least not the me I am here and now. “I need to know what happened. And once I’ve got my head around it, I’ll explain it was a mistake—spillover emotions from set. It happens.”

Bea refuses to make eye contact. She takes a long inhale. Even longer exhale.

And then: “I think I just need to go home. This night’s been . . . overwhelming. I know that what we saw on the screen, it’s technically not you, or at least the you that’s standing here with me. But . . . it also still is you, isn’t it? Your life. Your feelings. Your choice.” She shakes her head, still looking away from me. “It’s too much to think about right now. Okay?”

“Okay.” I’m not sure what else to say. No words feel right enough. I give her hands a squeeze.

She still gets in the car with me, though we ride in silence to her apartment. A kiss on the cheek, and then she leaves me alone again.

I can’t be upset, though, can I? I literally made this happen.

Past and present Rocco, every version of me on every timeline, always screwing up.

* * *

There’s ordinarily a lot to love about Pat and Lorraine’s.

It has the best drip coffee going, plus a chorizo breakfast burrito that easily destroys all competition. Home fries stuffed inside the burrito, no need for sides. Complete game changer. It also happens to be the location where they shot the opening scene in Reservoir Dogs—discussing their hypothesis on the true meaning of Madonna’s “Like a Virgin.” Never gets old, that cinematic factoid.

Today, though, I’d rather be anywhere else.

I can’t even stomach the idea of the magical burrito. Because this may get ugly. Or at the very least, downright uncomfortable. Canceling a redux so special, it took a cosmic time traveling event to bring us to this point.

I post up in a booth, my hoodie up high, head down low, plowing my way through one-and-a-half drip coffees before Piper walks in, roughly twenty minutes late. As she proved last night, fluttering around at Lanie’s party, some things never change. She charges toward me, then goes in for a European two-sided kiss before I even realize it’s happening. I tilt my cheek too abruptly, eager for our little greeting to end, and her lips graze alarmingly close to my mouth. I overcorrect, our noses doing a quick nuzzle before she pulls away.

“Interesting take on la bise. Anyway, sorry I’m late,” she says, settling into the seat across from me. Our knees bump, linger for too long of a beat. I readjust, determined to stay contact free. She’s dressed to be low key, too, in a baggy hooded gray sweatshirt and gray yoga pants, her long blond hair swept up in a messy bun. No makeup, so she doesn’t necessarily look like the Piper Bell people know from screens, but she looks remarkably like the Piper I knew. The behind-the-scenes Piper I liked best. “The 110 was a mess. And last night went super late. You know Lanie. I could use several oversized mugs of coffee right about now.”

The waitress comes over, fortunately, providing more time before we’re forced to engage in real conversation, and I order some food. A short stack of pancakes. More coffee. Piper orders coffee, too, and some wheat toast, dry. When the waitress moves away, she forages through her purse and pulls out some fancy looking jam packets.

“It’s all good,” I say, picking things up, probably after too long of a pause. “Gave me some time to lap you in a cup of coffee. It’s the only way I can keep up, talking to you.”

She laughs. As if it’s a joke, but it’s most certainly not. Piper is a fast talker and if I’m not careful, I’m liable to agree to a whole bunch of shit I might not have actually heard. Focus is key today—there’s a crucial task at hand.

“Well,” she says, “I’m glad you’re feeling better. You seemed like you’d, I don’t know, seen a ghost or something last night.”

I laugh now. Nervously. “What? Nope, nothing weird going on. All good. Nothing some sleep couldn’t cure, anyway.” I laugh again. Try for a casual smile. God, I’m a terrible actor in my real life. I guess that’s a good thing? Except it sort of sucks here and now.

“Right, so here’s the thing, Rocco. I really do think this movie could catapult us both into the stratosphere, and this angle . . .”

Angle. My hackles go up. But it’s not surprising coming from Piper. She’s never shied away from owning her ambition. It’s part of what I’d loved about her. Whether there are genuine feelings now or not, this is certainly part of her motivation. That catapult, as she says. Not that we both weren’t fairly catapulted already, before taking on Murder in the Books. But there’s always higher, isn’t there? Always more. Money. Fame. Awards.

But this movie . . . it’s about so much more than any of that outward success. This is Bea’s life. That matters, at least to me. It’s mattered since the beginning, even if I wasn’t so great at articulating that to myself, or to Bea.

“About that,” I cut in, before I have to hear more about the pros of our romantic reunion buzz. “After more time to process, I suspect that . . . it was likely emotions from the project that fueled our, er, extracurriculars. On-set spillover. That, and maybe some vodka.” A solid guess since I’m not privy to the specifics. High-end vodka had always been her drug of choice, at least back in the day.

“Oh yes, the vodka.” She laughs, but then her face settles into something more real. Piper isn’t all smoke and mirrors; she never was. There’s always been more, at least for the chosen ones she lets in. Who she chooses, when she chooses. First my brother. Then me. A long line of others since, I’m sure. I haven’t been closely following. “And yes, there was maybe some spillover, as you say. There usually is if you’re doing it right. But being on set with you, it triggered those old feelings, too. How could it not? The fiery history we have. My god. Our kiss the other night . . . I didn’t feel like I was kissing William. It was you, Rocco. I was kissing you.” She takes a sip of coffee. Sighs. “I don’t know. It’s confusing, isn’t it?”

Yep. So damn confusing.

More confusing than I’d like, by a long shot. A groveling ex I’d once thought was the one—enough so to turn my back on family for her, my own little brother—and a new relationship that’s so shiny and perfect and all-consuming. Or technically, no. Bea’s from my past, too, isn’t she? Either way, a real-life second chance rom-com.

Like I’d told Bea, there’s a reason I never sign on for rom-coms. Too mentally and emotionally draining, even when it’s just pretend. And this? It’s too real for anyone’s good. Especially my own.

“Anyway,” she continues, “Tom had said you were into this whole idea. He was rather convincing on that front. And I’ve been looking for a role like this—a way to age up gracefully, you know, no easy feat. I signed on for the nostalgia, too. People just won’t let go of us, will they?”

“What idea exactly did Tom say I was into?” I focus on that to start. The least intimate piece to process. “That pairing up again would be dynamite for this movie—for our careers?”

Piper nods. “Something like that, yes. And that it was destined to be. A tad prophetic and vague, but strangely sincere, too. He really believed in what he was saying. I can see why you’ve kept him around all these years without upgrading to a newer model. He’s a good manager.” She laughs again, low and throaty. Piper laughs have historically been heavily intoxicating. I’m a sucker for them, always have been.

“He’s good,” I say, trying to focus. “Always has my best interests in mind. But I’m . . . not really into a PR stunt to sell tickets and generate buzz. That’s not my bag. More honest ways to get attention with our work, right?”

Piper looks confused; there’s a soft wrinkle to her brow, and I’m pleasantly surprised she hasn’t loaded herself up with Botox. “What do you mean, ‘stunt’? I kissed you because Iwanted to kiss you, and it seemed pretty damn obvious you wanted to kiss me, too. Tom wasn’t trying to set us up, not outside our roles. That kiss? That was on us. It was honest, at least on my end. And to be candid, it felt . . . nice. Much nicer than I would’ve anticipated. You’ve grown up, Rocco. We both have.”

I’m taken aback. It feels good to hear her say that, after everything we’ve been through. And all scripts aside, I can attest to the chemistry we’ve always had. Way back to the early days, when we were just kids on the set of Black Hole Sons. Not that I don’t regret imploding my relationship with Rudy over her, but there was a reason for it. It sounds like a cop-out, but at the time, it had felt like chemical forces outside my control, pushing me toward her. She was it for me then. Had been since our first casting read through.

“It . . . wasn’t a stunt for me either.” It couldn’t have been, even if I don’t remember the details. If I kissed her, then I wanted to. Simple—or as complicated—as that. “The chemistry’s still there, clearly. The dailies don’t lie. You and I even breaking bread like this would have seemed impossible to me not so long ago. I like this—that we’ve moved forward. We’ve got too much history to be strangers in this town.”

Piper agrees with her eyes. She knows how big this is, too. A vindictive, highly publicized and heartbreaking dismissal doesn’t typically scream, “let’s be friends.” It’s hard to even say at this point who officially ended things for good; there’d been so many rounds in the end, stops and starts, messier and more volatile with each new temporary reunion.

But, miraculously, here we are now.

“I’m glad we’ve finally talked about it. It felt like you were perhaps . . . avoiding me for a little bit there? You can’t ghost your on-set wife, you know.” She cocks an eyebrow, but her pursed lips look more playful than angry. “I’m okay to take things slow, see how it goes. I don’t want to push you into anything. I don’t want to push myself into anything either. I just wanted to be forthright with you. Start there.” She sighs. “My life’s changed in so many ways, and so have I. This is part of that change—trying to be as straightforward as possible. I’ve ruined a lot of relationships because of my . . . inability to communicate. Present company included. We both had a knack for that, I suppose.”

The waitress returns with our food, and we eat in silence. Piper swipes a few bites of my pancake. That’s familiar, too. It feels like we’ve done all this before. But now that we’re older, maybe we’d finally be able to do it right, at least under different circumstances. Some things never change—but maybe othersdo.

That’s what I’m trying to prove to Bea, right?

Fuck. My head hurts. It’s somehow been two days and a week and half of my lifetime, all at once.

“Let’s take it day by day,” I say, putting down my empty mug, three refills deep. Probably not the right thing to say; or no, more like definitely not. It’s too loose, too promising, too slippery, and I promised Bea I’d make things right today, but I’m not sure how this kind of breakup etiquette should go. Everything feels fragile and tenuous and strange. Surreal. We’re exes, we’re costars—everyone’s counting on us to carry this project smoothly to the stars. “Thanks for being honest and upfront. I hope that’s been working well for you. I’ve got to run—I’m supposed to meet up with Rudy soon. I, uh, won’t tell him you say hello?” I’d texted him this morning, a brotherly SOS. He’s both the best and worst person I could talk to about any of this. The only one, really, either way.

“Hm yes, probably a wise choice.” She frowns, those brow lines returning as she balls up her napkin. It’s strange, seeing your girlfriend from your early twenties like this, so much more mature, inside and out. “I know how much I hurt him. Some old relationships don’t get a do-over. But I’ve heard his new show here is hilarious. I can’t help but check his socials sometimes—don’t tell him that either. I’m glad, though. Happy for him. He was always too good for both of us, wasn’t he?”

I nod. “He sure was.”

She’s quiet for a beat, looking at me without really seeming to see me, and then her eyes clear again. “I’ll see you Saturday, right?”

“Saturday?”

“My New Year’s Eve party, silly!” She laughs, reaching out to pat my wrist. “Everyone from set will be there. Well, except for Beatrix—you know how she is.” I do now, yes. But I didn’t—wouldn’t have—on this remixed timeline. “I was surprised to see you two so chatty last night.” A raised eyebrow, like she’s tempted to ask more, but then it lowers, her face perfectly symmetrical again, and she rolls right along. “Lanie’s coming, of course. Loads of other good people, too. Kevin Smith is even a maybe, and I know you always went totally moony-eyed over him. Anyway, come around nine. It’ll be fun.”

She stands then—always keen to be the first to exit any situation, her terms—and leans in for a quick peck on the cheek to say bye. Leaves me alone with the remains of my short stack and my thoughts. As I take another bite, “Like a Virgin” comes on the radio. Appropriate, being here.

And it reminds me of more than just that scene in Reservoir Dogs. There are Piper memories, too. We’d loved dancing around to Madonna during set breaks, she and Rudy and I. Goofing off. We’d even snuck into a VIP show once, without any parents finding out.

That’s the thing about Piper; she’s ingrained in a million old memories.

But there were never supposed to be new ones.

* * *

The Redwood Bar is a favorite haunt of Rudy’s.

It sits at the bottom of the tunnel on Second Street, where they filmed parts of Blade Runner. Very divey, nautically themed. But they have surprisingly delicious burgers and live music some nights, so another quintessential Rudy spot.

Rudy’s already perched at the bar when I walk in, watching what looks like an encore presentation of the LA Kings game from last night. I clap him on the shoulder, and he turns to me, grinning. “You can always count on the encore view when there’s nothing else happening at . . . two thirty in the afternoon,” he says. “I figured you wouldn’t mind getting a late lunch here. A nice frosty beverage, too.”

He stands and gives me a bear hug. It’s been so nice, having a friend who’s also a brother nearby. Not being the only Riziero on this coast. Maybe I should look for a gig in New York, too? Run away from all of this for a good long while?

“You know me too well,” I say.

“Of course I do.” Rudy steps back, smiling, then flags the bartender. “Two Pbr tall boys, please. And two cheeseburgers, medium rare. Double steak fries.” Perfect order. I suppose our taste has always been similar; too much so, in some cases. “So,” he says, turning back to me, “what’s going on? What can I help with today?”

Rudy’s plugged in like that. Not that we couldn’t enjoy a weekday beer lunch just because, but we both know when it’s about the hang and when it’s about working through some serious shit. It’s an innate brotherly connection, still intact after too much time apart.

I wait for the beers to arrive to launch in. This story needs some suds to be believed. We each take a few sips first, no small talk.

And then I tell him—the essentials, anyway.

Starting with the coffee date gone wrong . . . or maybe gone right. Ending with our second crash after the hospital. Waking up on Sunset like only seconds had passed. But with white hair, a T-shirt recovered from ’99, proof.

“To be clear,” he says afterward, crumpling his quickly drained can, “you’re saying that a 2000 Volkswagen Jetta is a time-traveling car. Not just you and Beatrix defying laws of the universe? It’s a trio?”

“I guess so, yeah. Who knows? But it started and ended in Delilah, after all. Delilah—that’s the car’s name.”

“Right. Delilah. I suppose I’m in a state of disbelief, but . . . who am I to judge? Wait, no. I’m your brother. I’m judging so hard right now. Come on, Rocco! You weren’t fed some unidentified chocolate or anything like that? There’s nothingpsychedelic going on? I know your neighbor is a trippy hippie, you sure he didn’t accidently spike your drinking water?”

I laugh a little at that. Because of course it sounds utterly ridiculous when you spell it out for someone. It sounds ridiculous to me, too, and I lived it.

“Well,” I say, clearing my throat. We’ve reached what may be the most improbable part yet. “It, uh, gets weirder. Apparently in this new timeline, Piper is in Bea’s movie with me. Playing my . . . wife.”

He looks at me, brows raised. “Um. Yeah? I know. We talked about that before you both signed on. I gave you my brotherly okay. We’ve moved on.”

Shit. That makes sense, I guess, hard as it is for me to fathom. For this Rudy, it’s always been this way. There was never Darla Dee. Only Piper, from the beginning.

“Right, well. That’s not how it was before, that was Tom’s doing after . . .” I wave my hand, flustered. So many side stories, so much to explain. “Anyway, apparently I kissed Piper recently, off set. Which I don’t remember at all, because the universe is playing cruel and unusual tricks with us, and that was . . . me but also not me? And now she’s interested in the potential to date again. Or something like that. I don’t know. I don’t know anything. I’m supposed to be at a New Year’s Eve party at her house on Saturday. With other people from the movie, but still.”

Rudy’s silence in response is telling. The scowl on his face further reinforces his displeasure.

My tallboy, it’s not nearly tall enough.

“Listen,” he says finally, after I’ve visibly squirmed enough to satisfy him, “as far as Piper goes, I’m good. No jealousy. She’s way back window. But c’mon, bro! Beatrix!”

“I know. But it wasn’t me. This”—I point to myself emphatically, waving both hands—“me right here. Like I said, Piper was never even supposed to be in this film, not originally. Bea and I, we had a run-in with Tom at a party in ’99, accidentally put some prophetic ideas in his head. Let him snag a magazine page from the future that got him thinking about what a nostalgic dynamo coupling Piper and I would be. I never would’ve agreed to the pairing as me in this moment. It’s all so damn confusing.”

I cover my face with my hands, feeling guilty on so many levels: For telling my brother that I’ve possibly rekindled the relationship that threw us apart for so long, even if he’s so clearly moved on. And framing that poor decision in the context of some absurd experience that’s too impossible to believe. How could anyone who hasn’t lived it buy in? Even a brother? Or maybe especially a brother, at least in my case, with our history.

“I have to say, I was surprised when you first asked me about the two of you being together on screen again. You were good about that, flew into Brooklyn to ask—promised you wouldn’t agree if I wasn’t okay with it. And for what it’s worth, you didn’t seem to really want it either; it was Tom pushing. But I wasn’t expecting a ripple in your timeline to be the cause.” Rudy pauses, a contemplative look on his face. “How does this somehow feel so . . . normal? I’m sure the bartender thinks we’re both on LSD right now.” He starts slowly waving his hand in front of his face, like he’s marveling at the movement.

“Whoa, man. Those trails are so colorful.” I laugh, swiping his hand down. Joke it off, even though I’m genuinely in awe of how easily he’s taking this news.

I’m loving this new Rudy. His own unconventional love story has really worked wonders on him.

The bartender drops our food plates, and Rudy motions for another round of beers.

“My take is this,” he continues. “Everything happens for a reason, right? Maybe Piper needed to be here for you now. A final test. What happened with you and Bea in the past, that seems like the important stuff here. Piper being in her movie, while shitty in the moment, sure, will blow the film up. Let’s be real. Who doesn’t want that?”

I nod, feeling a little sheepish. Tom is a good manager. Annoyingly so. “I cannot stress enough how good she is in this role. I saw dailies last night that were . . . mind boggling, honestly. Like nothing she’s done before. She’s going to get an Oscar for this. Piper is proving something, that’s for sure.”

Rudy nods, picking up his fresh beer. “Then you prove something, too. To Bea. To yourself. Keep things reasonable with Piper; use me as an excuse if you’d like. Whatever it takes. In another timeline, I’m sure I’d be going bonkers over what’s happening here. But I’m an engaged man. Lucy’s the only one for me. Everyone else was just . . . training wheels for the real race. You’re the one who helped me to see that last year when I came here to LA, all lost and confused about life and work and Lucy. And I see it in your eyes now, bro, that you’re without a compass. So let me be your sherpa. I want to return the favor.”

“You’re pretty smart for a baby brother, you know that?”

“Oh, I know. It’s a wonder you made it so many years without me.”

I throw a steak fry at his head.

The bartender gives a finger wag of disappointment. “Another move like that and I’m gonna rat you out to TMZ, you hear me?”

“Sorry, so sorry,” I say, hands raised in surrender, and then I turn back to Rudy. “Thanks. Really. I appreciate your ear. I was coming to the same conclusions, but it feels good to hear it from someone else. Especially from someone who shares my DNA. You know this life, too. You get me in a way no one else possibly could.”

Rudy slaps me on the back. Hard. Cheering for . . . the goal that happened eighteen hours earlier. “Go, Kings, Go! I’m right there with you, Rocco! Time traveling back to rewatch a defenseman by the name of Drew Doughty top shelf a one-timer!”

Classic Rudy.

We return to our beers and burgers. In all this chaos, it’s nice to know a good old fashioned family chat can still be so grounding.

Nice to know that, even after all the things I’ve done wrong, Rudy is still here next to me.