I quietly slink out of the bathroom and up to the bar to pay my tab. I manage to flag down the bartender and gesture the signing of a check with a thumbs-up when I see that he's got it.
"Cutting out early?" It's freaking Mark again. I quietly pray to the California God - the Universe - to please give me a fucking break.
"Like a bat out of hell."
"Didn't you just finish a double?" He looks me up and down. "There's no way you're not a lightweight."
"I feel fine," I snap. My go-to with guys that I like is to be meaner than a stepped-on rattlesnake. It's worked out well for me so far.
Not.
The bartender sets the check and a pen in front of me.
"Eight bucks?" I say out loud, astounded. "That's like, free."
Mark laughs and the bartender is puzzled by my reverse sticker shock. I quickly add a tip and sign the check. I shove my wallet back into my purse and dig for my keys, bumping into dudes that smell like beer and farts while I beeline for the door.
I push through the door and into a wall of water.
The rain. Oh, how I miss the rain.
Within seconds I am soaked to the bone. Ohio weather is my absolute favorite. I miss the seasons with the summer storms and winter snow, the fall chill and the spring flowers. Transitions that punctuate the passing of time.
There are so many things I love about LA, but our "75 and sunny" rep is highly overstated. Our seasons are smog, fire, wind and fire, and winter months when locals wear parkas and tourists wear tank tops. The ocean is too cold to swim in and there's too much irony to being located next to the largest body of water in the world and also in a perpetual water crisis.
I shiver and wrap my arms around myself. It's October and the rain is freezing. I feel a hand snatch keys out of mine and I look up to see Mark jingling them at me.
I frown. "What are you doing?"
"I don't think you should drive home yet," he says.
I roll my eyes. "I had one drink!" Even as I say it, I can feel the slight buzzing behind my eyes. Double rum on an empty stomach is catching up to me fast.
He arches a single eyebrow.
"Fine," I say, shrugging my defeat. "But I'm not going back in there."
He grins and motions for me to follow him to the parking lot. He pulls a key fob out of his pocket and nearby car lights blink. He drives a Honda Accord because of course he does.
"Number one car in America," I snark as I get into the car.
"Gets me from point A to point B," he responds. It's a dad answer, and all I can think is that he needs to get the fuck out of Ohio. Ohio pushes out dorky dads faster than the Kardashians push out babies.
"What qualifies you as DD?" I ask him, suddenly aware that he was just in a bar with high school classmates, too.
"Half a beer," he says. He starts the car and pulls out of the parking space. Raindrops hit the windshield in a perfect rhythm that makes my eyes lull. Best sound ever.
"Are you a serial killer?" I ask suddenly. My brain is starting to heat up. Fucking rum. "Is a jogger going to find my body in the woods behind Keller Park two weeks from now?"
He shoots me the side-eye. "That's vivid."
"As a kid, did you ever melt roadkill flesh in vats of acid in your basement so you could keep the bones?"
"No. Jesus." He runs a hand through his wet hair. "Are you a serial killer?"
"Does fictional murder count?" I ask.
"I think maybe it does." He grins.
"Then yup."
"Lots of people die on Cooler Than You?" he asks.
I sink deeper into my seat and cross my arms over my chest with a frustrated sigh.
"Not really," I tell him. "We did almost have a school shooting episode, but the network scrapped it. Say, where are we going?"
Just as I ask the question, he turns into the parking lot of a Waffle House.
Oh, shit.
My eyes light up like Christmas trees at the sight of black block letters against a glowing yellow backdrop. "Stonybrook has a Waffle House?! Since when?!"
"Since over a year ago," he says. I'm graced with another sideways glance. "When was the last time you were home?"
I bite my lip. Not since last Christmas. And even then, I was only home a few days for the holiday before I had to head back to LA to finish up a deadline.
He's barely parked the car before I'm out of it and nearly skipping to the front door.
A few weary-eyed truck drivers sit alone at tables sipping coffee and eating melty sandwiches. I pop a squat at a table right in front of a waitress who looks like a former meth addict. She sets a menu in front of us, but I don't need it.
"All-Star Breakfast, please. Eggs over medium, bacon, white toast, coffee - extra cream."
"I'll have the same, eggs scrambled." Mark slides into the seat across from me.
The waitress disappears into the back.
I turn back to Mark. "Okay, spill it."
"What?" Genuine confusion flashes across his face.
"Dude, I live in Hollywood. Coffee is not just coffee anymore. Coffee is a meeting."
"But this is Waffle House."
"The point is, you want something. What is it?" I'm on my usual mean streak. Even with the double rum, my heart is pounding inside my chest, and none of it is tempered by the fact that Mark is a law school dropout with not-so-long-ago Hollywood ambitions of his own. For all intents and purposes, I'm his ticket in. Little does he know that my own ticket only gets us seats in the nosebleed section.
His gaze wanders off to where the waitress is pouring ancient coffee into classic diner mugs. There's a war happening behind his eyes. I sink down in my seat and groan.
"Fuck!" I shout over the sizzle of hash browns on the griddle. Everyone in the restaurant turns to stare, including the waitress, who nearly pours coffee down the front of her apron. Oops.
Mark's expectant eyebrows shoot way up.
I sigh audibly. "You have a script."
The look on Mark's face, like I'm a fucking mind reader, annoys me to no end. The mental war wages on until finally, we all lose.
"Yeah, okay," he says, leaning forward. "I wrote a screenplay."
"I knew it! I fucking knew it."
"I don't want you to read it or anything. I know you're busy. I was just wondering if you could give me a few tips - maybe name someone, anyone I could send it to?"
"Is it any good?" I ask him.
He hesitates. "I don't know. Probably not."
I roll my eyes. "Well, there's your first problem. You're gonna have to get some swagger if you want to make it in the land of egomania and grandiose delusions."
"Is it really that bad?" he asks. The hope in his eyes is sweet and a tad pathetic.
"It's a mix," I tell him. "Fortunately for us, LA transplants tend to do well because we're willing to do actual work to back up our unrealistic expectations."
The waitress sets trashy, carbalicious goodness in front of me and I'm instantly transported to hog heaven. I immediately get to work wrestling open a tiny individual tub of fake butter.
"You inspired me," Mark says, catching me mid-syrup pour. I nearly drop the syrup dispenser.
"I inspired you?" I shouldn't sound so incredulous, but I can't help it. My career has felt the exact opposite of inspiring thus far. I want to write about serial murderers and mob bosses and AI technology, and instead I'm writing about underage drinking and teenagers getting it on in the back of a Mercedes. I want to ask the big questions, like, What does it mean to be human? instead of, What does it take to be popular in high school?
"You're doing it, Ellie," Mark tells me. I like the way he says my name in his soft tenor. It matches him perfectly. I sublimate my swoon with a giant bite of hash browns. "You're in LA, writing for a living. I know it doesn't look exactly like you want it to, but it's impressive."
I set my fork and knife down. "Okay, fine. You've twisted my arm. I'll read your stupid script."
Mark sits up a little straighter and I can tell he's excited. My heart flutters.
"Wow, really? That would be amazing."
"Yeah, yeah, but I don't work for free," I tell him, shoving bacon into my face.
"Of course not," he says sheepishly. "Name your price."
Why, why, why is he being so sweet. Come on, man! Be a jerk! Don't do this to me! Don't make me start to like you again. I do not have time for romantic, nostalgic feelings.
But it's already too late. There's that familiar tugging on my heartstrings.
"I don't want your money," I say. He eyes me suspiciously, a half-grin on his face. Why. Is. He. So. Cute.
Damn it.
"But I do need help with a list."
His grin spreads wide.
My heart explodes.
And just like that, the crush is back.
A/N:
Yeeeeikes!
OK, so inquiring minds want to know:
Who did you have a crush on in high school? Did anything ever come of it?
If you love Ellie as much as we do, give this chapter a VOTE (upper right corner, click the star)!
xo
V+F