But I had this crazy dream, and loving me made her passionate for me to pursue it. I knew her to have an adventurous streak, but I also knew she relished the chance to break out of her cocoon, silence her stuffy aunts and “concerned” mother who warned her that marrying a writer was a recipe for heartbreak. And so we left our yuppie-chic New York life for a chance at fame, fortune, and a self-congratulatory “I told you so.”
It may not be very liberated of me, but I wanted to take care of Libby in every way—emotionally, physically, and financially. Part of what made me fall in love with her was that she “just knew” I was destined for greatness. She built me up. She made me feel invincible. Even when things started to go south, she never lost faith. She was like a champion athlete who assumes she can’t lose because she never has. Failure was never part of her lexicon, so it didn’t seem possible to her. And so it became impossible to me.
But today, the impossible became possible. Parting with a cherished family heirloom was like opening the door to failure, pulling out a chair for him, and inviting him to stay. Yesterday’s Libby would never have done that. Today’s Libby was someone else entirely.
I watched Libby as she slid her White + Warren featherweight cashmere sweater over her head. Before folding it and putting it away, she inspected it for pills, removing a couple that had formed under the armpits and flicking them into the trash. Yes, she was accustomed to nice things, but she never took them for granted. You rooted for her to have designer threads because she appreciated and took care of them. And took care of herself to look good in them. I understood the temptation to see her as materialistic or shallow, but the possessions she had accumulated over the years were more than things to her. They were intrinsic to who she was—to who she’d always been. Until that day.
I thought back to our first date in New York. I took her to a falafel house, where everything on the menu was less than four dollars. The three two-top tables and all the seats at the counter were taken, so we ate on a park bench between a crying baby and a homeless man who smelled like soup. I thought I’d never see her again. But two days after our ill-conceived date, I got a card in my mailbox thanking me for the “delicious adventure.” I was stunned. Not that she’d enjoyed the date—the food and conversation were quite good—but by the overt optimism of the gesture. She didn’t have to say I hope to see you again, because the prompt delivery of her handwritten note said it for her. She was grace personified, even while sandwiched between a malodorous nomad and a crying baby.
She had her back to me as she slipped out of her bra and into her satin pajamas. She was no less graceful, but the sheen of optimism she once so effortlessly radiated had been worn away. It sounds hyperbolic, and she would never, ever say it, but part of her died that day.
I only hoped I could bring her back to life.
CHAPTER 24
“I think we should move back to New York,” Libby said when I got back from my impromptu meeting with my agent.
Since the deadline had passed and Jack hadn’t called, I didn’t want to waste even a minute finding a new potential buyer for my script. So I hauled my ass down to Beverly Hills to talk to Laura in person.
Everyone who works at a Hollywood talent agency, from the top dog down to the guy who sorts the mail, wears a suit, so I dressed up a little, in flat-front trousers and a button-down shirt. Agents don’t expect clients to dress as well as they do, but I always felt self-conscious standing among them if I looked like a schlub. They had parking in the building, so I wore my dress shoes, too.
Normally it takes my agent a week to put a list of potential buyers together for a pitch or a script, but I made her do it while I waited. She was not optimistic about the script’s prospects—this guy doesn’t do big-budget action, that guy already overspent this year—but by the end of the meeting she had a slim list and promised to try.
I stopped for coffee and a sandwich on the way home. I didn’t want to be hungry and frazzled when I saw Libby, it would be hard enough to feign optimism even with a full stomach and fully caffeinated.
But it wouldn’t have mattered if I came home whistling Dixie, she had made up her mind. She wanted to leave LA. She had given up on me.
I do this silly thing when I have to make a tough decision. I flip a coin. Not to make the decision for me, but to see how I really feel. Heads, we stay in California and keep grinding. Tails, we cut our losses and go back to our families and lives we once knew. I flipped a coin in my mind and pretended it came up tails—leave California. I should have felt relief. My career was agonizing. And I had no real prospects. But I didn’t feel relieved. I felt despair. I was an addict, and I didn’t want to give up my drug, even if it would heal my finances and my marriage. But it wasn’t only up to me. As a screenwriter, I was also a salesman. I pumped myself up to make one last pitch.