Misery Loves Cabernet (32 page)

“Since when is helping out an old lady a screwup?” Drew asks.

“Since when is ninety-five an old lady?” Mawv asks, offended.

“Never get in the middle of a domestic squabble, sweetie,” Jesus says to Mawv as he deals another round.

As Mawv nods her head to show she thinks that’s good advice, I practically yell, “This is
not
a domestic squabble. I am not Drew’s wife, I am . . . I
was
. . . his assistant.” Then I turn to Drew. “And you have crossed the line for the final time. I quit.”

I walk out of the kitchen, and prepare to walk out the front door. I’ll call a cab once I’m out. For right now, I just need to say my exit line and go.

Unfortunately, Drew never lets anyone have the last word. He follows me. “You can’t quit me!”

“Yeah? Give me one good reason why.”

“Because I’m your family.”

I turn around and glare at him. “In what twisted world do you live in that you could possibly ever consider yourself family?”

“Don’t give me that look,” Drew says offhandedly. “I’m neurotic, I’m self-involved, and you’re constantly having to deal with me. I fit in beautifully.”

I shake my head, and turn to leave again. “I’m so out of here.”

“And because I love you,” Drew says.

I stop at the door. I’m so tired of this. I turn around to Drew. “At the risk of sounding like one of your damn movies, you don’t even know what love is. Love is not making your loved one deal with hippo poop. Ever. Or, making your loved one accompany you to Idaho at three
A.M.
because you, and I quote, ‘need to see winter.’ Or, making them pull you out of a toilet . . . twice. And let’s not even get into the fact that I have a roommate right now because of you. . . .”

“Yeah,” Drew says, pointing at me. “And you’re welcome!”

“No,” I say, throwing my hands up to the sides of my head in exasperation. “You don’t get it. I can’t like someone if . . . you know what? Never mind. Like I said, I quit. I need to lead a normal life. And this is clearly not normal.”

Drew crosses his arms. “Do I get to talk before you leave?”

I sigh. The man exhausts me. “Fine.”

Drew looks over at the table by his front door. He might as well have a lightbulb go on over his head, because clearly he has an idea. “I don’t love you in the way you want to be loved. But never doubt that it’s there. I love you unconditionally. I love you because you’re cute, I love you because you think I’m a pain in the ass but you’re still here, and I love you because you have a certain Charlieness that I have not been able to find in any of my other friends. I have loved you through Dave, Danny, Steve, Jim, Jeff, John, Marshall, Patrick, Jerrys numbers 1 and 2, and Jordan. I’m gonna love you when you fuck it up with Liam, and I’m gonna love you when you fuck it up with the next guy. I’m gonna love you the day you walk down the aisle when you finally do find the right guy, and I am going to love you every Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year’s, and Fourth of July until one of us dies. And, for that reason, you can’t quit.”

I look him in the eye to see if he’s lying. He doesn’t look like he is. He looks like a vulnerable man who has just admitted his deepest, darkest feelings, and wants to feel like they’ve been reciprocated, and like he’s been accepted as a caring human being.

Which is why he’s an actor. I look over at his front table, and set my sights on the script on top of the highly polished wood. I quickly walk over to the script. “Which page?” I ask angrily.

“Fifty-six,” Drew admits sheepishly.

I flip through to page fifty-six. As I do, Drew continues monologuing at me, a desperation creeping into his voice, “Your favorite color is something called eggplant. It’s this really dark purple that you always wanted to put your bridesmaids in when you get married. . . .”

He’s not getting me this time. I keep flipping through the script pages while Drew continues, “Only now you’re so irritated with them, you figure you’ll put them in bright orange polyester microminis with white go-go boots. You tell people your favorite sex symbol is Jared Leto, but really it’s Stephen Colbert. You tell people your favorite book is
A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court
, but really it’s
Oh, Not Again
, the book your mom wrote in 1979. . . .”

I get to page fifty-six, and start scanning the page. Drew continues, “And you didn’t have me read this script because you thought I might get an Academy Award, you did it because you wanted to go to Paris to see Jordan.”

I look up from my reading.

“Yeah,” Drew says. “I figured that out, and I read it anyway. That night. I came home with a drunk woman who wanted to have sex in a harness, and instead of doing that, I read a script you told me to read. And I committed to the project the next day, guaranteeing you a second chance with Jordan, or a first chance with Liam. So, you can get mad at me for hippos, and trips to Idaho, and granting your great-grandmother her dying wish. But you are staying. You’re stuck with me. Because, you know what? I am the best thing that ever happened to you. You’re just too blind to see it.”

I stand there, dumbfounded.

Wait a minute, the best thing that ever happened. . . . I lift my hand to slap him again. He flinches. “All right. That last line was too much. I take it back.”

I put down my hand, still glaring at him.

“It was,” Drew continues. “I had you after white go-go boots. But then I pushed it.” He takes my hand, and kisses it. “Seriously, I fucked up, and I’m sorry. But I can make it up to you. What is it going to take to keep you from quitting?”

Good question. And I know the answer. Because, despite how badly my day ended, I think back to earlier in the day, when I was really energized. When I got to scout locations, learn about permits, read through the writer’s latest script changes, and in general do something I thought was invigorating and interesting.

And, for better or for worse, continuing to work for Drew could help me do what I want to do in the future.

However, I’m not sure how Drew will handle my demand.

You want the foolproof test to see if you’re in a good relationship? Tell the person the thing that you’re most afraid to tell them. Then see how they react
.

I take a deep breath, and say to Drew, “I want to produce a movie that you’ll star in.”

Drew just seems confused by my request. “Oh, I don’t think you want to produce the type of crap I star in.”

“No, I’m not talking about one of your blockbuster movies. I want to produce a movie like
A Collective Happiness
for you. Something that’s important. Something that will be remembered. Think about it: you could be like George Clooney. You could star in an
Ocean’s Seventy-two
, then star in a small movie that will be nominated for a slew of Academy Awards.”

Drew smiles to himself. “I like the sound of that.”

“And I could find you the script. Then help secure the financing. We could go to Sony or Universal for a development deal tomorrow, and we’d have studio offices by the end of the week.”

Drew furrows his brow at me. “Nah, I’ve had studio development deals before. It’s an ego offer that never works out. You develop scripts for years, and no one ever greenlights any of your projects.”

True enough. I try a different approach. “What if I manage to secure a good script for a low-budget film, then put together outside financing? Would you do it then?”

Drew thinks about it a moment. “If I agree to star in a small movie, you don’t quit?”

“No.”

“And you still get me my coffee?”

I roll my eyes. “Until I find the right project for you, yes.”

He shrugs. “Done.” He puckers his lips together, thinking. “Can you get me a trailer for the next one?”

“Sure,” I say, then I walk with him to the kitchen to announce to Mawv that she can stay. “By the way, you do realize that Liam crack is going to cost you an extra hundred dollars a week.”

“Hey, you can’t do that. I’m economizing.”

Some men are just an itch you can’t scratch. Get away from these men
.

Despite our romantic evening, once Liam got home from Lake Arrowhead, we were back to being just roommates. He was a roommate who made me breakfast, who was fun to watch DVDs with on a weeknight, and who was helping me on my career path. But he was still just a roommate.

And by now, I am ready to explode.

“Maybe I should just fuck his brains out, and get it out of my system,” I suggest to the girls on Saturday night.

“Yeah. Because women are so good at doing that,” Dawn responds dryly.

“No, seriously,” I continue. “I’ve had the last few days to think this through. How many gorgeous men do you know who are good in bed?”

This is followed by Dawn, Kate, Andy, and Jenn answering with, “Not many,” “Good point,” and “I’d say about ten percent.”

I’m surprised Jenn and Andy would give the same answer, but I run with that. “Weird answer, but okay: let’s go with ten percent.”

“Way too optimistic,” Dawn insists.

“Word,” Kate concurs.

Dawn turns to her. “I’m sorry. Did you just say ‘word’?”

“Guys, Liam will be back in less than five minutes. Eyes back to me.” All four girls turn their attention back to me. “Okay, so ten percent. That means I have a nine-to-one shot that I’ll pin him to a wall, show him who’s boss, then be wildly disappointed, and lose my crush.”

“Why would you pin him to a wall?” Andy asks.

“I don’t know. Because he’s standing right now, and I can’t afford to lose time. You’re missing the bigger picture. A show of hands. Am I allowed to do this?”

Naturally, this is met with a split vote of two each.

To backtrack: I spent the rest of my week utterly charmed with my new roommate, and completely hating myself for having a crush on him. And I kept thinking about kissing him at the most inopportune times. Like when he makes breakfast. Or when he was fixing my TiVo. And even though he’s been wearing long flannel pajamas around the kitchen all week, I still think about wrestling him to the ground, and giving him a big smooch.

And I miss those damn boxers.

Now it’s Saturday night, and I’m ready to burst, and thinking about my next move. Liam and I have met up with Jenn, Andy, Kate, and Dawn in the basement of a Mexican restaurant in Silverlake, ready to see “Chico’s Angels,” an episode of
Charlie’s Angels
performed by a group of Latin drag queens who have turned it into a musical.

It’s sentences like that that make me glad I live in Los Angeles.

The five of us girls have settled into our seats, and Liam has gone to get us drinks.

Which means I only have a few more moments to talk.

Which means I need to have everyone give me advice quickly.

“Okay, Kate, you’re first. Why no?”

“Because you think you’re just going to have a lovely one-night stand. And then nine years later, there he is, causing you to accidentally sleep with him and mess up your wedding plans.”

Dawn shakes her head. “I disagree with you on two counts,” she says to Kate. “First of all, Charlie already knows he’s a dog. She just needs to satisfy her libido.” Dawn turns to me. “Flip ’em over. Turn ’im out.”

“Word,” Jenn says jokingly.

“Stop that,” Dawn tells her sternly.

“All right. I’m leaning toward Dawn’s argument. Andy: your rebuttal.”

“Wait,” Kate says to me, then turns to Dawn. “What was the other thing you disagree with me about?”

“You accidentally hit your car. You don’t accidentally sleep with someone,” Dawn says.

“Treat him like a cold,” Andy says. “Don’t touch his hands, lips, or any part of his anatomy, and you won’t get infected. Seriously, think about how many women he’s been with. You don’t want him bringing anything home to Mama.”

“Home to Mama?!” Dawn says. “When did all you white folks start trying to sound like you got street cred?”

Jenn shakes her head at Andy. “Oh, now see, I completely disagree. I have a total married crush on Liam. I think she should go for it.”

“He’s totally out of her league,” Andy points out with a snap in her voice.

“Women go out with men who are out of their league all the time. Look at Rob and me,” Jenn counters.

“Wait a minute,” I say, ignoring the obvious barb from my sister to stare at my very pregnant cousin. “You have a crush on Liam?” I ask, trying not to sound shocked.

“No,” Jenn says with a
don’t-be-such-a-silly
tone in her voice. “I have a
married
crush on Liam. It’s not a crush—I’m almost nine months pregnant, a crush would be beyond delusional—it’s a married crush.”

“I see,” I say, confused about the semantics. “So what exactly is a married crush?”

“A married crush is when you think the person is amazing, and you wish you had met them ten years ago, when you were both single, but who you don’t have a real crush on, because you’re married and you’re with the person you’re supposed to be with, so you’ve stopped having crushes.”

“So you’re saying if you had met Liam ten years ago, you would have dated him?” I ask, sort of surprised that my happily married cousin could ever have carnal thoughts about another man.

“Of course not, he would have been totally out of my league,” she self-deprecates. “That’s the other advantage of married crushes. I could flirt with Justin Timberlake and happily think to myself, ‘Oh, if only I’d met him ten years ago, I could totally get him into my bed tonight.’ ”

I squint my eyes together. “Justin Timberlake was a teenager ten years ago. . . .”

“Now you’re missing the bigger picture.”

Fair enough. Fascinated, I continue my line of questioning. “But if you had dated Liam, wouldn’t that mean you wouldn’t have ended up with Rob?”

“No. Rob’s my soul mate. Liam would have been a fun diversion, though. I mean, you should totally tap that if you get the opportunity.”

Andy and I stare at her. “I’m sorry,” Andy says dryly. “Did you just say ‘tap that’?”

Jenn nods her head. “I’m trying to sound more hip. Wanted to know how it sounded when I said it aloud.” She looks at us. “No, right?”