21 Penguin Pajamas and Private Jets
TWENTY-ONE
Penguin Pajamas and Private Jets
Diana Jenkins called me immediately after the shoot.
“Your photos were so beautiful,” she said. “You are beautiful. When can we get dinner?”
“How about Wednesday?” I asked.
Diana and I met a few days later for dinner, and after that she took me under her wing.
I’m not sure what I needed at the time—a mother figure, a diversion from Heroes, or some excitement and friendship—but I fell completely under her spell.
Dinner led to parties led to planning weekends together.
I had plenty of friends my own age, a boyfriend, a dream job I loved, and a family I was mending fences with as best I could, but I craved the attention and adoration.
I was far better known to the public than Diana, but her personality dominated mine.
She gave people orders, and I smiled and made them feel welcome.
She worked her magic, manipulated, and generated attention, and I tried to be straightforward and genuine.
Our good cop/bad cop routine worked, and I never once felt like Diana undermined me. We complimented each other.
Diana was almost thirty years older than me, and while I’d always been mature for my age, it’s impossible to overlook an age difference that large.
It was a weird friendship for sure, but as I stretched into my newfound adulthood, I had to see which relationships suited me, on my own terms. At that moment, Diana seemed like she could give me everything I needed.
My relationship with Milo was heading into its second year.
The press scrutiny around our age difference had been relentless, and Milo was such a private person that I knew it wore on him.
But as far as I could tell, there wasn’t much wrong with our dynamic.
I liked Milo and he liked me. My family approved and that gave me comfort.
Maybe we weren’t destined to spend our lives together, but I enjoyed what we had, and it seemed like he did, too.
One night late in 2008, Milo and I went together to a party that was also attended by an important executive at NBC.
This man—who I’ll call John—was one of my Big Bosses, and I didn’t want to ruffle his feathers since he weighed in on decisions, such as if I could take time off from Heroes to film a movie.
I liked John and had never had a problem with him.
Milo, however, just never seemed to warm to him.
“Hayden!” John said, approaching me from across the room.
“How are you?” He smiled and waved, then leaned forward and pecked me on the lips.
I can’t say I’d ever been kissed on the lips by a television exec before, but I knew it was innocent.
To be honest, we’d both had a few drinks, and John had never made me feel uncomfortable.
I decided to tell Milo what had happened when we left the party and were in his car.
“John gave me a kiss on the lips back there!” I said, laughing. “Not an air kiss or a cheek kiss. His lips touched mine. What a sleazebag!” I actually didn’t think John was sleazy, but when your boss pecks you on the lips at a party, sometimes jokes just have to be made.
Milo was silent. I glanced to my left and saw him gripping the steering wheel, his face fixed in a frown.
“Milo?” I asked tentatively. “You’re not laughing. It was funny, I promise.”
Milo was quiet for a few more minutes, then he cleared his throat. “Next time I see John, I’m going to say something to him. That was completely inappropriate.”
I pivoted in my seat, realizing I’d made a mistake. “Seriously,” I said, “it was not a big deal. It was a peck that lasted a split second—just to say hi. I was not offended. You really don’t need to say anything to him.”
Milo pulled the car into a gas station and turned to face me. “I think I need to take you home,” he said. “I’m just not feeling well.”
“Go home, I’ll take a cab,” I answered, reaching for the door handle.
Whatever was going through Milo’s head was his business.
I couldn’t tell if he was upset about the silly kiss, genuinely sick, or something else entirely, but if I left him alone, I was sure it would all pass. Milo was a sensible, solid guy.
I opened the door, waved goodbye, and motioned that I’d call him as soon as I got home.
“Get home safe,” Milo yelled when a cab rolled up and I stepped inside.
A few days later, Milo and I met up.
“We need to talk,” he announced as soon as we sat down.
Those dreaded four words, which anyone with two ears and five brain cells knows the meaning of, were the last thing I expected to hear.
Except for the party incident, everything about our relationship had been drama-free.
Now this. The realization that my relationship was most likely ending hit me like a ton of bricks.
I felt the oxygen leave the room, and I gasped and sucked in my breath.
I felt my chest start to heave, and I exploded into a torrent of hysterical tears.
“Are you breaking up with me?!” I stammered.
“It’s over, isn’t it?” I wasn’t really in love with Milo, but our relationship was something stable in my life, and now he’d pulled the rug out from under me.
In my nineteen years, no one had ever broken up with me—especially not after a silly misunderstanding like this (or whatever had happened the other day).
My delicate nervous system wasn’t prepared for the shock.
I put my face in my hands and felt hot tears blinding me, then I lifted up my face to the sky and began to wail as only a heartbroken teenager could.
“Noooo… !” I cried.
Milo put his hand on my shoulder, and when I looked at him, I could see the shock registering on his face. “Hayden,” he said softly. “I take it back. I take it back.”
I collapsed in his arms and continued sobbing for a good five minutes.
About a week after Milo announced he’d changed his mind and we were indeed still together—or at least that he’d “taken it back”—I was sitting in my house wearing my most comfortable pair of pj’s.
They were what I call penguin pajamas because they had rubber-soled footies that keep your feet warm, not that it gets all that cold in LA.
Milo and I had spent the morning together, so I assumed we were back on track.
After the horrific display I put on during our last “talk,” I sure hoped so.
“Is there anything we need to discuss?” I asked. “I mean, about last week.”
Milo hesitated, and I noticed his face was dead serious. “I changed my mind,” he answered.
My stomach turned and heat flooded my face. “Wait, what? Are you breaking up with me? Again?”
“We can definitely still be friends,” he responded.
I stood up from my chair, rose to my full five foot two, and faced Milo.
Instead of feeling traumatized like I had before, I was filled with red-hot rage.
“I’m sitting here in my penguin pajamas, like some eight-year-old,” I said, “and you’re breaking up with me again?
After you broke up with me, then changed your mind last week?
What is going on with you? I thought we were fine! ”
Milo was silent, and he looked down. “I’m sorry, and I mean it. But it’s just not working out.”
A burning sensation filled my stomach as I felt my whole world fall apart around me—again. But instead of crumbling along with it, my fight or flight instinct kicked in. “Get out of here!” I yelled, picking up his coat from a chair and throwing it into the hall. “Out!”
Milo stood up, grabbed whatever I hadn’t tossed out of the room, and apologized again.
“I said get out!”
He turned and walked away, and I collapsed to the floor in my footie pajamas.
The next afternoon, I was still in my pj’s, lying in bed in the fetal position.
I’d hardly slept the night before, and I hadn’t answered my phone or any texts.
How could I? I’d been kicked to the curb for the first time ever, and that warranted a serious period of mourning.
I’d cried all the tears I could, and now I needed to lie in bed for a few more hours to honor the somber occasion.
Suddenly, I heard a knock on my door. Slowly and deliberately, I peeled myself out of bed, then dragged myself toward the front door. I looked through my peephole, and there stood Annie. Next to her was a rolling suitcase.
“You look terrible! Why aren’t you dressed?” she asked when I opened the door.
“Milo broke up with me last night,” I answered.
“What happened?” she asked.
“I’m not sure. I just think he wants to move on.”
Annie’s mouth turned down into a frown, and she looked at me sympathetically.
“Girl,” she said, “take off those stupid pj’s, get in the shower, and pack up your nicest clothes.
Diana Jenkins just invited us to New York City on her private jet, and the plane leaves in five hours. You are going to be on it.”
In an instant, the clouds cleared, and the skyline of New York City began to dance in my brain.
I thought of fancy dinners, late nights out, sexy men and women, and all the things I could see and do after I stepped off that swank private jet.
In the blink of an eye, my delicate adolescent heart mended, and Milo became a distant memory.
Ah, youth! I’d had a thoroughly traumatic eighteen hours, but that was all over now.
Life is short and relationships come and go.
New York City was calling, and it was time for this nineteen-year-old to party.