How to Meet Cute Boys (32 page)

“Good.”

“That’s good.”

Enough with the goods already. I waited for him to say something else. He didn’t. And just like every other time, I couldn’t
let the space be. I had to fill it. I opened my mouth to fill the void.

I said, “I thought I saw you at a party the other night.”

“Really? Where?”

“The Standard.”

“Oh. I didn’t see you.”

“You walked right by me.”

“Huh.” I heard his lighter click, and then he exhaled. “I didn’t see you.”

Okay,
I wanted to say,
then what do you want?
Instead I waited for him to take the lead. But again, he didn’t say anything.

“Max, is there something else you wanted to talk about?”

“Actually, there are a lot of things.”

Intriguing,
I thought.
Wait … shit
. “For example?”

“I read your article in
Filly
. The one about younger men.”

“Oh.”

“And I wanted to call”—he took a deep breath—“to say I’m sorry I hurt you.”

There it was. The truth. I sat down on the couch and tried to figure out how hearing him say it made me feel. He did hurt
me, of course, but what hurt the most was that I suddenly realized he must have known what he was doing the whole time and
he didn’t do anything to stop it. All my bravado and all my casualness and all the plans with all my friends—he probably saw
through me the whole time, but he never wanted to talk about it. I’d never stood a chance. My throat started to swell shut.
My nose started to run. My eyes filled and the sunlight coming through the windows started to look all watery. I let the tears
go.

“I’m sorry you hurt me, too,” I said. My voice sounded funny to me.

He said, “I think we need to talk, B.”

“About …”

“About what happened. About us.”

I felt my hopes start to rise. I didn’t want them to—they just did.

“Nothing happened,” I said. “You broke up with me.” It felt good to say it.

He said, “That’s not entirely true.”

“Isn’t it?”

“You brought the bag of presents I gave you, remember? I was really stressed at work. You were putting a lot of pressure on
me—I know you didn’t mean to … Look, this is the kind of stuff I want to talk to you about.”

“But I’m a little confused. We haven’t spoken in months.”

“I thought about calling you every day.”

Once, this would have been enough to get me right back in there. But all of a sudden, I was furious.
This is not enough,
I thought.
Not anymore
. I said, “If you thought about calling every day, then why didn’t you?”

Max paused.

“Well,” he said, “like, maybe I thought you wouldn’t want to talk to me.”

“I never gave you any reason to think that.”

“You’re right. You didn’t.”

“Then what?”

“Look.” His voice was soft. Patient. Reasonable. I could close my eyes and see him, sitting on his bed, biting his lower lip,
which he did whenever he was thinking hard. “I don’t think we should try to fix our entire relationship over the phone, do
you? I mean, come on B, I don’t think we can.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Okay,” he said. “You were right. I
was
happy. So I mean, maybe, if you could just give me the space I need, then it could all be okay. Maybe we can work this out.”

Then he said, “When can I see you?”

It was like I was frozen, and I could see everything. Everything—and from all sides. I could see the dust sparkling in the
light, dancing around the room. I could see every color known to mankind on the spines of books on the shelves in my living
room. My CDs—scattered all over the table as usual—were refracting the sun and casting rainbows on the dining room walls.
I could hear, too—Freak lick, lick, licking his paw. A car door slamming outside, then voices laughing. A baby crying. The
slap of a basketball down the street. I could smell a neighbor cooking something spicy—something with curry powder in it.
Under that, exhaust from a truck parked outside. And under that, the smell of flowers. Because underneath it all Los Angeles
always smells like flowers. I could see and hear and smell everything, and for one perfect second I could keep everything
in perfect balance in my mind.

So basically I got in my car and started driving. I didn’t tell anyone I was taking off. Not even Kiki.

The crazed and colorful Vegas hotels looked psychedelic in the rain on my windshield. It had started pouring down the moment
I’d pulled into a truck stop just outside of town.
Funny,
I thought.
Whenever I picture Vegas it’s always sunny, dusty, hot
. Didn’t matter though. I wasn’t staying. Too many people trying to get the winning number, and I wasn’t looking for the winning
number. I wasn’t even going to play the game.

I had this silly fantasy when Max and I had hung up the phone that I’d drive all the way to the Grand Canyon, where I’d never
been, and take a look. Like the girl at the end of a movie. The girl whose heart got broken and yet, at the eleventh hour,
gets out with her head on her shoulders and her dignity intact. As she drives away from the camera and the credits roll, we
know for sure that even though it hurt, she’ll soon find that a new, better road awaits. Maybe one with a cute hitchhiker
thrown in for good measure.

Except then reality hit. I really didn’t have time for this.

I had to get those story ideas in to Kiki.

I had to save my sister’s marriage.

I forgot to leave food out for Freak.

I left my house with nothing but a sweater, a pack of cigarettes, and my entire CD collection, which I frantically pushed
into a suitcase in a fit of misdirected cinematic romance.

And finally, if I just up and disappeared, Finn would probably have found me attractive enough for a marriage proposal and
then he’d never stop calling.

I got out of the car for a minute to stretch my legs. I needed to get some gas, plan my next steps. I love truck stops, always
have. The bathrooms are cleaner than at gas stations, you know. And they always sell funny cheap T-shirts and really good
beef jerky. I wasn’t in a mood to shop, though, so I told the guy behind the counter I just needed to fill my tank.

“Where you coming from?” he asked, scratching his arm.

“L.A.”

“Where you heading?”

“L.A., actually.”

“Not exactly good weather for a pleasure drive.”

He pointed at the road, which was getting pelted with rain and, since the gutters were all clogged up, was starting to resemble
a river. I shrugged and said, “It’ll clear up.”

He shook his head and laughed at me as I ran back outside with my sweater pulled halfway over my head in a vain attempt to
stay dry. I could still feel his eyes as I pumped the gas, and then following my car as I made a U-turn back onto the highway.

Then I was just driving along, looking at landscape I’d already seen. I kind of liked it.

If Max had been surprised when I’d told him I couldn’t make any plans because I was on my way out of town, he’d hidden it
masterfully. “Just call me when you get back,” he’d said.

I said, “Let me think about it for a little bit.”

Then he seemed maybe a little surprised.

Rummaging around in my suitcase for something extra moody and good, I found the perfect CD and slid it into the player. There
were no cars in sight, and the sun made a sudden appearance, lighting up clouds that were now so bold they looked like the
print on a baby blanket. I was curious what fresh hell had occurred in the last three hours so I checked my voicemail. I had
six messages. But before I listened to them, I decided I didn’t care and hung up. I was sure it was just Audrey calling to
complain about Jamie, the Mother calling to complain about Audrey, Nina calling to complain about my complaining, Kiki calling
to see if I wanted to complain, Finn calling to complain that I hadn’t called him back yet, and Chandra calling to complain
to whoever would listen.

The smart money was that there would be no message from Max, though. Because according to the rules of the Full Life—and he
was the master—Max had to bide his time. See if his silence grabbed me. Got me interested. Made me turn my metaphorical car
around.

Perhaps it will. I wish I could say we’ll never get back together, but maybe Aud’s right. Maybe if I can get up the courage
to tell Max what I really want, at least I’ll find out for real if he’s the right guy for me. It’s possible that I’m just
too scared to tell him the truth. Because I miss him. I really do.

At least Max will have to wait for me to call, for once.

I mean, six voicemail messages? If that isn’t a full life, I don’t know what is.

ALSO AVAILABLE FROM WARNER BOOKS

STAR CRAVING MAD

by Elise Abrams Miller

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THE CURSE OF THE SINGLES TABLE

A True Story of 1001 Nights Without Sex

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Twenty-seven-year-old Benjamina Franklin is the dating scene authority for L.A.’s
Filly
magazine, even though her own love life has been stuck in limbo. With her younger sister’s wedding coming up—and her dread
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may not be what he seems. Now with the help of her best friend and her well-meaning family, Ben attempts to steer a course
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Filled with Ben’s own provocative tips, articles, and quizzes from the pages of the fictional
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USAN
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ITTENPLAN, EXECUTIVE EDITOR
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B
OOKLIST
(
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)

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D
ETAILS