I laugh. “Yes, I did know this. Listen, when you come back, I’ll walk you through roasting a chicken.”
Leo’s quiet for a second. “No, thanks. I just want you to roast me a chicken. I don’t ever want to eat another chicken that wasn’t roasted by you.”
My desire to put on an apron and roast this man a chicken is profound. I don’t even own an apron. I just want him to be close enough to me that I can hand him a plate with chicken on it. “Okay,” I say. “Let tonight be the last non-Nora chicken you ever eat.”
* * *
? ? ?
I can’t wait to talk to him on Wednesday night, because I’m going to get to say, “See you tomorrow!” Bernadette and Arthur are unusually upbeat at dinner for the same reason. They brush their teeth and move their bathroom stuff into mine, in preparation.
Around nine o’clock I get a text from Leo: It’s all hitting the fan. Just google “Bohai” and you’ll see. The studio’s fired him and I need to meet the new director tonight. Good chance I’m not going to get there till Friday. I’ll text you after dinner? Or should I let you sleep?
I say: That’s okay, text me.
And I mean that it’s okay to wake me up because I’d rather talk to him than sleep. I do not mean that not coming until Friday is okay. I wake to the sunrise and two texts from Leo. They came in at two o’clock and hadn’t woken me.
Leo: Hey. Too late to call?
Ten minutes later: Glad you’re getting some sleep. Tonight was a lot, I actually like the new guy but there are going to be tons of changes. There’s no way I get there before Friday. So sorry. Love you.
So it’s not today. I’ll wait another day. What’s the big deal? I tell the kids at breakfast. “So Leo texted me in the middle of the night. They had to hire a new director so he can’t come till Friday.”
“I got the same text,” says Arthur to his eggs.
“See,” says Bernadette. “This is why I need a cell phone. It’s not fair that Leo texts you guys and not me. I’m totally left out of this family.” That last word gives me pause.
“You’re eight,” I say. “If I bought an eight-year-old a cell phone so she could text with a movie star, I’m pretty sure they’d run me out of Laurel Ridge.” I smile at her and get a glare in return.
“You think he’ll come Friday?” Arthur asks. I can tell he’s nervous to ask it.
“Of course! It’s the play. Leo’s living for this.” My voice has gone high-pitched, like I’m selling something. Arthur gives me a pinched smile. The truth is that I have no business making promises about a school play on behalf of a man who’s working on a film with a 250-million-dollar budget. Leo has reentered something that is bigger than we are. I’ve lost my chance to manage Arthur’s expectations, mainly because I don’t want to look at the possibility that Leo will break both of our hearts.
I don’t hear from Leo all day Thursday. I assume whatever is keeping him in L.A. is keeping him busy. He’s working with the new director. There was something about getting fitted for a slightly different costume situation. I know he’s busy, but when he hasn’t called by dinnertime to say those three little words, “See you tomorrow!” I feel kind of sick. My own selfish heart needs him back. More than that, I cannot bear the thought of his disappointing Arthur.
I wake Friday morning to see he texted during the night: I’m really sorry, there’s no way out of here. If I leave the whole project falls apart. I’m not sure when I can get back. I’ll call you when I can.
I feel like I’ve been punched in the gut. Besides the pain of it, my overwhelming feeling is that I should not have let myself get punched in the gut. I have let down my guard in the most epic way. Arthur is going to be devastated. Frankly, the whole town is. The thought of walking into that auditorium tonight to a chorus of “Where’s Leo?” makes me want to scream.
Arthur finds me on the porch with my coffee. “I got the text too,” he says. “This sucks.”
“It does,” I say and put my arm around him. “It really does. But you are going to be so great tonight, and the whole town is coming to cheer you on.”
“We don’t need him.” He looks at me hard, studying my face. “Are you okay?”
“Of course,” I say, and we both know I’m lying.
“Your eyes look like you were crying,” he says.
“Allergies,” I say.