With a Little Luck: A Novel Page 12

  “Oh …”

  “Yeah,” she says. “So from where I’m sitting, your ‘unfortunate’ date seems pretty exceptional, so all I can imagine being the ‘worst part’ is—what?—he’s taking you horseback riding at sunset?”

  “Well, now I feel like an asshole for complaining.”

  “What?” she goes on. “He’s flying you to Paris for dinner?”

  “Actually you’re not too far off. We have to go in a helicopter around the city.”

  “Oh my God, it’s like an episode of The Bachelor, except he’s not creepy, you’re the only girl, and I’m now starting to sort of hate you like I hate every other girl on that show.”

  “I don’t want to go on a helicopter, and it’s not like a real date! It’s a fake date, made doubly fake because my first fake date still wears Underoos. Anyway, the date is really annoying in its forcedness and publicness—”

  “And awesomeness?” she interrupts. “I’m sorry, I’m just not seeing the downside here.”

  “You don’t understand, and I don’t expect you to, but let’s just make it about the helicopter. Helicopters are scary.”

  “I disagree,” she says. “I think you’re going to have an amazing time, and I’m going to be completely jealous.”

  “Then we’ll agree to disagree.”

  “Agreed,” she says. “Or disagreed. Whatever.”

  Come fly with me.

  —FRANK SINATRA

  Chapter Ten

  There are few things more exciting or more traumatic than getting ready for a first date. What do you wear? Does your apartment need to be clean in case you bring the guy home? Do you tempt bad fortune by cleaning in the hopes you’ll bring the guy home? Will the gods of fate find that presumptuous? Do you shave? Do you tempt bad fortune in the hopes that you’ll want him to discover you’ve shaved? Will the gods of fate find that presumptuous? These are all things that need to be considered. Clothes? Always stressful. I try on five different outfits and model them for Moose, who finally gets up and leaves the room, strongly suggesting the blue dress is a no. Apartment cleaning? Sure, you always want your apartment clean, but the stress of having to do it in a mad rush at the last minute makes you get sweaty and need to take a whole other shower before getting dressed. Which leads us to the shaving thing. A lot of people say don’t shave. That way you will force yourself to behave and come across as less of a slut. But then Murphy’s Law will guarantee that you end up naked with the guy and he’ll think you’re a filthy Sasquatch.

  Not that this is a real date.

  Because it’s not.

  When Ryan and I are seated at our table at Pace, the conversation flows naturally. So naturally, in fact, that the waiter comes to our table three times before we’ve even looked at the menu.

  “What made you get into our not-so-glamorous business?” he asks me as he wrestles with a piece of bread that doesn’t seem to want to separate from the rest of the loaf in the bread basket.

  “Music,” I say, and shrug. “There’s just never been anything I’ve had a more visceral reaction to. Memories, experiences … Pretty much everything in my life has a soundtrack that I can call up. I always just knew I wanted to work in music in some capacity, and I have no musical talent whatsoever, so … radio.”

  “No musical talent?” he balks. “I find that hard to believe. In fact, didn’t I see you do a rendition of ‘Sweet Child o’ Mine’ at that charity karaoke event two summers ago?”

  I’m completely taken aback. He knew who I was two summers ago? I pretend I’m not excited to glean this little tidbit.

  “You have quite a memory,” I say. “That’s my go-to karaoke song. I don’t remember you singing that night.”

  “That’s because I didn’t.”

  “Why not?” I ask.

  “Because unlike you, I actually mean it when I say I have no musical talent. I had a blue plastic recorder when I was in grade school, and that was the beginning, middle, and end of my music career.”

  “So what got you into radio?” I ask.

  “My dad,” he says. “He worked as a sound engineer, and one day he came home from work and said, ‘Son, whatever you do … don’t go into radio.’ So of course I went into radio.”

  “Are you close with your dad?”

  “We lost him,” he says.

  “Oh, I’m sorry.”

  “No, I mean we don’t know where he is,” he says.

  “Oh,” I say. “Did he go out for the proverbial pack of cigarettes and not come back?”

  “Worse,” he says. “Ice cream. I’d just had my tonsils out, and when we got back from the hospital, he promised me all the ice cream I could eat. He never came home. To this day, I cry when I see the number forty-eight.”

  “Why the number forty-eight?”

  “Baskin-Robbins,” he explains. “Forty-eight flavors.”

  “It’s thirty-one flavors.”

  “Fuck.” He bangs his hand on the table. “I’ve been crying at the wrong number this whole time?”

  I can’t help but smile. “None of this is true, is it?” I ask.

  “I did get my tonsils out.”

  “Was your dad a sound engineer?”

  “Yes,” Ryan says. “And he did tell me not to go into it. And I was gonna listen. I got my degree in psychology and was going to be a therapist of some kind, but then my college radio show took off on a lark and … here we are.”

  Our food arrives, and I cut off a piece of my cedar-plank-grilled salmon and put it on his plate. He feeds a piece of his chicken directly to me. I’m trying not to like him, but he’s making it increasingly difficult.

  “You have great teeth,” he says.

  “Teeth?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “They’re perfect. I’m sure everyone compliments you on your hair or your eyes—and don’t get me wrong, I’m a fan of those, too—but those are some nice-looking chompers you have.”

  The solicitous way he says “chompers” makes me burst out laughing, and I accidentally spit out a shard of salmon.

  “I’m still learning to eat,” I say, completely embarrassed.

  “I have that effect on women. They spit at me constantly.”

  “I believe it,” I say, and wink, still mortified.

  “But I like it,” he says. “Sometimes when I’m lonely I’ll go to the zoo and see if I can get a llama to spit at me.”

  “You’re a weirdo,” I say. “Stop trying to make me feel better.”

  “We should go to the zoo on our next date and see if we can get a large animal to spit at us. Make it a theme.”

  Our next date? Did he mean to say that? Is he thinking this is really a date? A real date?

  “Are you calling me a large animal?” I ask, but then quickly add, “Don’t answer that. I withdraw the question. But can we pick a different theme for the next date?”

  “If you insist,” he says.

  For the most part, Ryan is completely unlike who he is on the radio. He’s sweet and charismatic, he’s interesting and interested—he’s not just waiting for me to finish talking so he can speak, he really listens. I find myself totally engaged yet sometimes totally distracted and missing what he said completely because I’m thinking, Oh my God, I might actually like this guy.

  Which would be bad. Because he’s Guy Number Three, and Guy Number Three, we know, is gonna be bad news. Already I’m regretting having told the restaurant that it was Ryan’s fortieth birthday. I know the fake birthday is an old gag, but I was going for the “old gag” in its most literal sense—saying he’s ten years older than he actually is.

  When the waiters bring the cake over and start singing a fancy jazz version of “Feliz Cumpleaños,” he doesn’t miss a beat.

  “C’mon, guys,” he says, all charm. “Look at me. Do I look like I could be forty years old? It’s her fortieth birthday.” And all eyes go back to me. He’s a wily one, this Ryan Riley. “And you don’t know this woman and cake. If you don’t bring her a bigger piece, s
omeone might seriously get hurt.”

  We’re still laughing as we exit the restaurant and walk to the valet. Ryan offers to drive us to the heliport, and I don’t refuse.

  “I’m actually excited,” he says. “I’ve never been in a helicopter.”

  “Me neither,” I tell him. “And to be honest, I’m a little scared.”

  “Really?” he says, and places his hand on my knee and squeezes. His hand lingers on my knee, and I don’t want him to move it. “Don’t be nervous. It’s totally safe. We’re gonna be just fine.”

  Somehow, when he says it I believe it. Plus, what are the odds of our parent company losing two DJs in one night?

  I’m pretty sure Pilot Dan is unstable. I’m not talking about piloting skills. I’m talking life skills, coping skills, confidence-inspiring skills. Never mind that his green-and-another-shade-of-green striped shirt immediately convinces me that if he’s not full-on blind, he’s at least color-blind. I’m generally not a paranoid person, but Dan’s got a mild facial tic and keeps asking Ryan for relationship advice. In truth, he’s more shouting than asking, because “so loud it’s deafening” doesn’t even begin to describe the situation. The incessant whir of the propeller sounds like a machine gun with a stuck trigger—not that I want it to stop propelling mid-flight; I’m terrified enough as it is. We’re wearing headphones to block out some of the noise and enable us to communicate with each other.

  “Hey, Doc?” Dan says to Ryan.

  “I’m not actually a doctor,” Ryan says. “I just play one on the radio.” Then he turns to me. “What are the odds I would ever be able to say that in a real-life situation?”

  I shake my head and clutch my seat.

  “I’ve heard your show, and you know stuff,” our pilot goes on. “What are the sure signs that your wife is cheating?” he asks.

  “What?” Ryan shouts.

  “How do you know your wife is cheating on you?” Dan shouts, and from here until we get used to the racket of the blades, we settle on a volume about fifty decibels above bloodcurdling scream.

  “Well,” Ryan says, “I’m not sure there are any one hundred percent sure signs—”

  “Sure signs,” the pilot says.

  “Right, yes, sure signs,” Ryan continues, “but often sudden changes in appearance can be a tip-off. Like if she usually goes around in sweats but suddenly starts caring more about how she looks … going out looking more put together … That can be a sign.”

  “Uh-huh,” Pilot Dan says, nodding.

  “Starting a new exercise regime. Also, if she’s secretive about her phone,” Ryan adds. “People who have nothing to hide will leave their communication devices lying around the house. But people who are composing secret text messages or emails will carry their phone everywhere.”

  “Even to the bathroom!” Dan says.

  “Well,” I chime in, “she could just be expecting a call … or a text.”

  I can see he’s agitated, and I don’t want the already scary and possibly color-blind pilot who is flying the already scary helicopter to be agitated. I suddenly remember a recent news story about how the army just abandoned plans for a new attack helicopter because after twelve billion dollars in development costs, it still kept crashing. Twelve billion and they can’t get it to stay in the air? I’m resolved: No agitation for the pilot.

  “She’s not always expecting a call,” Dan says.

  “Nobody’s always expecting a call,” Ryan agrees.

  “Exactly!” Dan says. “But she’s clutching that phone at all times. Especially when she goes to the bathroom.”

  “I take my phone with me to the bathroom,” I say. I don’t really, but I don’t want Creepy Pilot getting agitated.

  “Not every time,” Ryan says. “I’m positive that every time you go to the bathroom you do not—”

  “No agitation for the pilot!” I shout, my panicked thoughts manifesting themselves into sentences spoken loudly.

  Ryan looks at me, and I give him a pleading look.

  “You know,” Ryan says, “these are just theories. Sometimes a new outfit is just a new outfit.”

  And it’s at that moment that Dan makes a sudden turn and takes off in the opposite direction, slamming me up against Ryan as though I’m pressing my face against a plate-glass window. Smoosh.

  I know L.A. well enough, and we’re flying low enough to know that this isn’t the lame “Tour of L.A.” route that Bill had booked.

  I want to say something to Ryan, but I feel like I could be being paranoid so I just sit. And panic. And look out the window at the residential area we seem to be touring. And … circling?

  “Are we going in a circle?” I ask Dan.

  “That’s what a tour is … one big circle …” he answers, but his already beady eyes have become shifty. I should have realized he was insane by the way he smiled at us when we boarded. I was too busy touching the fuselage with my right hand to really take into account that no one smiles that big at strangers unless they’re about to crack.

  “Seems like a smallish circle,” I press.

  Dan says nothing, but I see tiny beads of sweat forming on his brow and upper lip. I catch Ryan’s eye and raise my eyebrows to say, “Are you not noticing that we are going in a tiny circle?”

  Finally Ryan speaks up. “Bro, she’s right. What’s up?”

  Dan doesn’t answer, but I notice his nostrils flare.

  “Dan?” Ryan says. “Everything okay?”

  Dan points down at … something … and the helicopter drops a good twenty feet.

  “Whoa!” Ryan and I simultaneously say.

  “That’s my house,” Dan says.

  The look that Ryan and I exchange is a knowing one. We’re in a bad situation.

  “Which one?” Ryan asks, feigning interest so as not to upset our not-so-dutiful pilot.

  “The one down there … right … hang on …”

  He does another loop and moves in closer.

  “The one right there,” he says. “The roof is white. It’s a white roof. Do you know what a white roof is?”

  “A roof … that’s white?” I offer.

  “Yes,” he says. “It’s white, and it reduces the cost of electricity by lessening your need to use air-conditioning. White reflects heat instead of absorbing it.”

  “That’s interesting,” I say. “Eco-friendly.”

  So he’s earth-conscious in addition to being a psycho stalking his wife. From the friendly skies, no less. How nice.

  “I have a pair of binoculars on the floor,” he says.

  “Neat,” I say, and look at Ryan, who shakes his head.

  “Could one of you get them for me and hand them over?”

  “I get that you’re going through something, man,” Ryan says. “But maybe this isn’t the best time to be … you know … checking up on your wife.”

  “It’s absolutely the best time,” he says. “She thinks I’m at work.”

  “Yeah, because you are.” Ryan sounds a bit stern when he says this, and I’m glad. “We’re paying customers here. And we’re both radio DJs with a large audience, if you get my drift.”

  “The binoculars,” Dan says. Then adds, “Please.” As if that makes the situation any more palatable.

  Ryan reluctantly reaches down and hands the man his binoculars.

  “I’m so sorry,” Ryan mouths to me, and the previous thirty minutes or so of fighting the noise has made me an excellent lip reader.

  “It’s not your fault,” I say, trying to remain somewhat upbeat.

  “It’s totally my fault,” he says. And I feel like we’re Stillwater, the band in Almost Famous, when they think the plane’s going down so they’re panicking and saying whatever needs to be said.

  “Hey,” I say. “If we get out alive, this will make a good story.”

  That much is true for sure. Bill and Wendell have already prearranged for me to be in the studio with Ryan tomorrow to discuss our “date,” so this is definitely fodder for tha
t.

  “I can’t see anything,” Dan says, and he loops around again.

  “Maybe it’s for the best we move along, then,” Ryan says. “And really, we’re California natives, so we don’t mind cutting the tour short.”

  “Sure, no problem,” Dan says, but he’s just yessing Ryan and doesn’t change his flight pattern at all.

  “So you wanna bail on this little recon mission and head back to the heliport?” Ryan asks.

  “In a few,” Dan says, and makes another loop.

  Ryan and I look at each other. I don’t think he’s going to suicide-bomb into his house, because first, he hasn’t actually been able to even see anything, and second, he knows damn well that it would be a waste of a perfectly good white, heat-reflecting roof. A roof he’s proud of. I keep telling myself this over and over as we go in circles over and over.

  I change my mind about Ryan’s culpability. “Assuming we make it to the station tomorrow, you are so not going to hear the end of this,” I say to Ryan.

  “I’d expect nothing less of you,” Ryan says with a smile. A smile that even in this ridiculous and terrifying situation manages to make me feel a little bit better. Until we swerve.

  “I think I see something!” Pilot Psycho shouts.

  “I’m sure it’s really hard to see from up here,” I say.

  “Seriously, man,” Ryan chimes in.

  “No, I saw … something,” he insists. “Movement.”

  “Well, your wife is alive, right?” I ask, thinking, Oh God oh God oh God I hope she’s still alive. “She’s allowed to move around your home.” Oh God oh God oh God she’s chained up in the cellar.

  Dan squints his eyes and does that tic thing he does when he’s plotting or thinking or existing. He jerks his head slightly to the right. Really quickly.