Chapter 15
“No!” Liv slams her fork down on the table after I finish recounting how the previous night went down. “You and Nick can’t be doomed lovers. You just can’t be,” she insists. “ Bar Wars is supposed to be a sci-fi action-romance. Not a tragedy.”
“You may need to take some artistic license with the story,” I say glumly. I continue to push my egg-white breakfast burrito, no cheese or sour cream, around on my plate.
Liv, Heather, and I are in the middle of Saturday brunch at the Firehouse on Rose. The diner—most famous for being the place that Keanu Reeves patronizes just before all the drama with the bus in the movie Speed —is located in an actual refurbished firehouse. As I look around at the bright-red walls and the firefighting memorabilia hanging there, I desperately wish I had some foolproof way to fight this supernatural vampire-killing fire burning inside me. But as I realized last night, wishes don’t always come true.
“But you’ve only been a slayer for like, what? A few days?” asks Heather.
I shrug.
“That’s nothing,” she says. “You can still get on top of this.”
“Maybe enough to keep what I am hidden from the other vampires. Maybe enough to keep myself safe and alive,” I say. “But not enough to ever be with Nick. Think about it. If I lose control with him—even for just a second—it gives my slayer an opening. And I could kill him. Literally kill him.” I put my fork down. Shoving my plate away, I lean back in my chair with a sigh and shake my head. “No way can I risk that happening. I mean, I didn’t even want that to happen before, when I thought I couldn’t stand him. But now…”
“You like him,” says Liv. I notice it’s not a question anymore.
I shrug again. “It doesn’t matter,” I say. “We can’t be together. It’s too dangerous.”
The three of us are quiet for a few moments.
“Okay, we need cocktails,” says Heather, breaking the silence. She tries to flag down our server.
“I’m not sure cocktails will help,” I say.
“Couldn’t hurt,” says Liv.
Just then, my phone pings with a text alert. I glance down at it.
“Oh crap!” I say.
“What now?” asks Heather.
“My ex,” I say. “I totally forgot I’m supposed to meet with Jonathan today. He wants to talk .”
My besties grimace in sympathy.
I don’t want to deal with Jonathan right now. I really don’t. My gut instinct is to text him back, say something’s come up, and cancel.
But the problem is I never want to deal with him. When it comes to having the tough conversations like this, I’m a total freaking wuss. And that’s why I’m in this awkward position with him now. For two years, instead of making a clean break of things, I’ve been giving him a string of maybes and let’s-sees, hoping eventually he’d just get the message and move on.
I’ve been justifying my behavior by telling myself that I was sparing his feelings. That I was being kind. I mean, I do know how painful rejection can be. As an actor, I experience rejection on pretty much a daily basis.
But giving someone false hope is not kind. I see that now.
Sometimes wishes don’t come true. Sometimes you can’t have the person you want.
“Maybe it’s karma,” I say.
“What?” asks Heather.
“My situation with Nick,” I say. “Maybe it’s the universe paying me back for the way I’ve been treating Jonathan.”
“I don’t think that’s how the universe operates,” says Liv, pushing her glasses farther up on her nose.
I frown down at the text from my ex, thinking.
Regardless of how the universe operates, I need to change the way I operate. I need to find the strength to pull on my big-girl panties, set Jonathan straight, and set him free to move on.
Then maybe at least one of us can be happy.
Having caught Heather’s signal, our server appears at our table. “Can I get you something else?” he asks.
I peer up at him, and I decide to chuck my mostly-stick-with-water rule right out the freaking Firehouse door. If I’m going to finally get real with my ex, I need something a little stronger. “Cocktails,” I say. “Definitely cocktails.”
***
Two hours and two mimosas later, I walk into the Starbucks on Main. Jonathan is already here, sitting at a table with some big fancy iced coffee. When he sees me, he smiles and gets to his feet. He’s wearing another one of his ultrapreppy outfits: madras shorts, white polo, and Adidas sneakers. He looks good, I guess. The same as he always does. In two years, he hasn’t really changed.
“Carrie,” he says.
I paste on a smile and cross over to him. “Hey, Jonathan.”
He goes in for a kiss, which I clumsily manage to avoid. We end up in an awkward hug. As he wraps his arms around me, I feel his hands on my back stiffen. He pulls away in surprise.
“You’ve been working out,” he says.
I’m dressed in another look styled by Heather. This time, she put it together with a few things she borrowed from the wardrobe closet at her work. The puffy-shouldered pin-tucked shirt does a good job of camouflaging my new upper body, while the stretchy, black denim capris minimize my lower-body bulk. But the illusion is purely visual, I realize. The hard swells and contours of my body are all too apparent to the touch.
“Yeah,” I say, wriggling out of the embrace. “I’ve been… training .”
“Oh. That’s cool I guess,” says Jonathan. Although his lack of enthusiasm for my new muscles is clear.
And I have to say, it really kind of pisses me off. I mean, it’s one thing for my agent, for casting directors, for Hollywood decision-makers to judge me based on my appearance, but it’s another thing entirely to be judged by someone I know, someone I used to care for. Someone who claims to still care for me.
“I’m a lot stronger than I used to be,” I tell him. “And I’m getting stronger all the time.” And as I say it, I realize I’m not just talking about my physical strength. Maybe he hasn’t changed, but I have. Or at least I’m trying to.
“Well, can I get you something?” he asks. “A coffee?”
I shake my head. “No thanks.” I take a seat at his table, and he sits down opposite. “I just came from having brunch.”
His dark-blond brows come together, and his forehead furrows. He scrutinizes me. “With that guy?” he asks.
“Guy?”
“The other bartender,” he says. “The one with the piercing and the ink and the… hair .” The disapproval in his tone is obvious, not to mention wholly offensive. Now it’s like he’s judging Nick based solely on the way he looks.
My anger starts to intensify.
“You don’t know anything about Nick,” I say evenly.
“I know he’s not the guy for you.”
“Then maybe you don’t know me all that well.”
“Carrie,” he says, “of course I know you. I know you better than you think. Maybe even better than you know yourself.”
I sit up straighter, and my irritation builds. Did he really just say that?
“Be careful,” I tell him. “You’re starting to sound like my mother. And just to be clear, that is not a compliment.”
“Look,” he says, totally oblivious to my mood, “I understand that you might want to rebel a little. Take a walk on the wild side. But come on. The low-paying job? The low-class boyfriend? That’s not you.”
“Oh my God,” I say, barely containing my rage. “Do you even know what a snobby little shit you sound like right now?”
He sits back in his chair and blinks at me, clearly surprised by my uncharacteristic outburst. But quickly enough, he regains his composure and pegs me with a hard stare.
“What’s happened to you?” he asks.
“Excuse me?”
“Why are you acting this way?” he asks.
For a moment, I’m struck speechless.
“I may have come to LA to be an actor,” I say when I find my voice. “but I assure you, I am definitely not acting right now.”
“Are you ever coming home?” he asks.
“I am home,” I say.
“No,” he says. “You’re slumming.”
And that’s it. I am so done.
“You know what?” I say. “I came here knowing what I had to say to you but not knowing if I’d have the strength to say it. But as it turns out, you’re making this pretty damn easy for me. You and me? We’re not taking a break,” I say. “We’re broken up. And we’re not getting back together. Ever. I’m sorry I wasn’t clear about that two years ago,” I continue. “I should have been. And that’s on me. But you don’t know me, Jonathan. And honestly? I don’t think you ever really did. To you, I’m just that girl at the country club pool. I’m the girl from the right family with the right pedigree who went to the right schools, and ever since we met, you’ve just been filling in all the rest. And that? That’s on you.”
“Are you finished?” he asks quietly after a bit.
“ We’re finished,” I say, standing up. “Goodbye, Jonathan. And good luck to you. Truly.”
“Yeah? Well, good riddance to you,” he practically spits at me. “Have fun with your fucking bartender.”
For so long, I’ve been avoiding this conversation because I thought it would make me feel bad. Yet despite Jonathan’s parting insult, I actually feel… good . Lighter. Like a weight I’ve been carrying around for more than two years has finally been lifted. They say that the truth will set you free, and what do you know? It’s true. There’s almost a skip in my step as I turn and head for the exit.
But as I push the door open and emerge onto Main Street, something else starts to drag me down. I remember that the bartender in question isn’t actually mine.
And with things the way they are, he never freaking can be.