The Rom-Commers(95)

And then we had a dance party.

Right there in the hospital room.

It was all just starting to wind down when one of the nurses stepped out into the hallway—and started shrieking like a teenager at a Beatles concert.

And we all rushed out …

And I know you’ll never believe me …

But there, looking around the empty nurses’ station—in a pair of Levi’s 501s and a T-shirt that could just as easily have been body paint—was Jack Stapleton.

The guy on the billboard outside the hospital. That Jack Stapleton.

I knew, like everybody knew, that Jack Stapleton lived on a ranch outside of town. And he had a well-publicized history of randomly showing up to serenade healthcare workers of all kinds in gratitude for the good work they do in the world. So it wasn’t an utterly impossible coincidence.

No more impossible than other impossible things, anyway.

Jack Stapleton randomly showed up at my sister’s last-minute hospital elopement. And then he stayed. He sang karaoke with every single person there, and he toasted the bride and groom, and he took a hundred selfies—even one with me.

He didn’t seem to remember me, but it was fine.

He might not’ve been quite as starstruck to meet me that day in LA as I had been to meet him.

And then, after Jack Stapleton had taken off, leaving a trail of swooning nurses in his wake, and after Mrs. Otsuka had taken Kenji home for bedtime, and after the bride and groom had waved and hugged their way down the hallway … just as my dad was about to turn in for the night, he squeezed my hand.

“That was fun,” he said. “Who’s next?”

“Not it,” I said.

“How’s your writer doing?”

“He’s fine,” I said. And then amended: “I assume he’s fine.”

“Not still in touch with the writer?”

I shrugged. “He turned out to be disappointing.”

My dad nodded. “Most people are.”

“I liked him,” I clarified. “But he didn’t like me back.”

My dad was appalled on my behalf. “Then he’s much worse than disappointing! He’s a dolt.”

I’d never really appreciated the world dolt before. “Thanks, Dad.”

“We’ll find you somebody good, sweetheart,” my dad said.

“We definitely will,” I said, not believing it at all.

And then my adorably out-of-touch-with-pop-culture dad gestured with his thumb at the door that Jack Stapleton had walked out of not fifteen minutes before and said, “How about that Jake Singleton guy? He’s not bad looking. I think he’s got a future.”





Twenty-Nine

TWO WEEKS WENT by.

Sylvie and Salvador took a forty-eight-hour mini honeymoon on Galveston Island.

Kenji started a marine biology summer camp at the science museum.

My dad left the hospital for a stint at an inpatient physical therapy rehab to strengthen his limbs.

And I …

I didn’t do much. I’d taken the summer off from teaching when I got the Charlie Yates gig. So, when I wasn’t visiting and fussing over my dad … I binge-watched TV. I ate scoops of peanut butter straight out of the jar. I slumped by the window like an unwatered houseplant.

Any day now, I’d start figuring out my life. Any day, I’d start feeling better and come up with a future I could get excited about.

I was a little disappointed in myself, to be honest.

Was all this hopelessness really necessary?

I’d had an adventure. I’d seen a bit of the world. Experienced a little heartache. And now it was time to learn from it and move on.

But if I’m honest? Really honest? Honest in the way you can only be when you know for sure the person you’re telling won’t judge you?

(Don’t judge me, by the way.)

I missed Charlie.

I knew it was pathetic. I knew it was indefensible. I knew that moping over a man who didn’t appreciate me was ridiculous. I didn’t want to miss him.

Wasn’t that the number one rule of standing up for yourself?

Don’t like people who don’t like you.

It wasn’t complicated, I told myself over and over.

It was just hard.

Because everything had been better with him somehow. Swimming had been more fun when he was sitting grumpily on the steps. Writing had been more fun when I was sparring with him about love. Grocery shopping had been more fun when he was making me watch him juggle oranges. He just … lit me up.

And I missed that light so much.

But I guess this was a teachable moment.

If you wait for other people to light you up, then I guess you’re at the mercy of darkness.



* * *



I WAS LYING on the living room floor of our apartment, watching the ceiling fan blades spin and avoiding cleaning the bathroom, when I got a call from Logan.

“Are you sitting down?” Logan said.

“Even better,” I said. “I am lying down.”

“Brilliant,” Logan said. “Brace yourself.”

I flattened my arms against the floor. “I’m braced.”

“Donna Cole,” Logan said, “wants your screenplay.”

I sat up. My screenplay? What screenplay? “The Accidental Mermaid?” I asked. I never even gave it to her.