Phoebe Berman's Gonna Lose It(40)
Phoebe:
Ryan Gosling is on my flight
Nora:
No he’s not babe
Phoebe:
He was right in front of me
In 27A
Nora:
Ryan Gosling wouldn’t be caught dead in 27A
Alex responds with the selfie I took last summer with David Spade, when I spotted him at the Silverlake Flea Market. Our hands touched while we both scanned through a rack of vintage T-shirts, and he was surprisingly eager to chat.
“How have you been?” he had asked, and I remember being pleasantly surprised by how friendly he was. I asked him for a photo, which seemed to catch him off guard, and eagerly texted it to the group. “David Spade sighting at the flea!!”
Alex called me right away.
“Phoebe,” he said. “That’s Carrie, from my gay poker league. You’ve met her.”
All this to say that sometimes I can get a little confused when it comes to celebrity sightings.
I situate myself next to 27A once the carousel starts to move, anxious to open a line of communication.
“Excuse me?” He turns and looks down at me with piercing blue eyes, his aviators now dangling haphazardly from his V-neck. “Would you mind helping me with my bag when it comes out? It’s kind of heavy.” I smile sweetly.
He nods and smiles at me with his blindingly white teeth.
“Totally. What’s it look like?”
I describe the oversized purple L.L.Bean suitcase to him.
I don’t feel nervous while we wait for our bags and make small talk. Maybe the list really is helping. Or maybe I just don’t care enough about 27A, whose name, I’ve learned, is actually Bryan. Which is exactly what Ryan Gosling would say if he were trying to stay incognito. I find that interesting, to say the least.
“There it is!” I point out my bag, inching closer toward us on the carousel.
“Got it,” he says while reaching down to grab the handle. He hoists the bag halfway off the conveyor belt before releasing it with an oof. “Jesus fuck!” Bryan yelps as he cradles his left shoulder.
My suitcase drops back onto the belt with a loud thud, and I watch as it continues on in the other direction. The commotion attracts a small crowd.
My eyes go wide. “Are you okay?”
His blue eyes turn to ice as they narrow in on me.
“You didn’t tell me it was five hundred fucking pounds!” He groans as he continues to hold his shoulder with his opposite hand. “What did you put in there, boulders?”
I can feel a wave of heat creeping up my neck and spreading across my cheeks.
“I-I’m so sorry.”
I do a quick mental inventory of the contents of my luggage: clothes for the week, one bridesmaid dress, a few options for the rehearsal dinner, four pairs of heels, my salon-size bottles of curly hair shampoo and conditioner, my air purifier, a few hardcovers, a hair dryer, and…oh no.
Did I forget socks?
Bryan whines, “I think you dislocated my shoulder.”
I didn’t do anything, I want to retort, but several onlookers have formed a small crowd. An older man in a Cornell quarter zip makes his way toward us.
“I’m a doctor,” he asserts. “Let me take a look. Can you extend your arm?”
Bryan winces as he tries to move his arm. “It really hurts,” he whimpers, sounding almost identical to a child with a scraped knee.
This man couldn’t be further from Ryan Gosling.
The doctor takes a second to poke and prod at his shoulder before announcing, “It’s dislocated.”
I spot the purple outline of my bag making the loop back around. I slowly back away, unnoticed, and manage to hoist my bag to the floor while keeping my shoulders in their sockets. As fast as its jammed wheels will let me, I roll my bag in the direction of the cellphone lot, where Jamie waits, trying my best to blink away the image of Bryan’s icy blue eyes and bulging muscles that are, clearly, just for show.
* * *
—
“One, two, three, LIFT.” Jamie and I heave my bag into the trunk of our mom’s Lexus with a collective grunt.
“You’re lucky that guy only dislocated something. You could have killed him.”
Clad in a Manhasset Central Basketball T-shirt, athletic shorts, and Uggs, she looks fifteen again. I have to remind myself that I’m here for this child’s wedding.
“Sorry, Mom,” I tease her as I slide into the passenger seat and shut the door. And then, after thinking about it for a moment, I add, “Maybe I should leave my air purifier home next time.”
“You don’t say.”
She tries to turn up the music the second we get into the car, but I insist on five minutes of silence while she navigates the JFK arrivals area.
“Oh please, it’s not that bad,” she claims, but I can barely hear her over the sound of horns blaring. I use the time it takes to exit the airport to study her. Even in her T-shirt and messy bun, she glows. Despite her being clearly exhausted from wedding prep, her signature smile never falters. Being around Jamie always reminds me to breathe. She’s always radiated calm, and that hasn’t changed in the months leading up to the wedding.
Whatever the opposite of a bridezilla is—that’s Jamie.
“Do you want lasagna or flatbread for the vegetarian meal option?”