The extra series 1, p.25
The Extra Series, #1, page 25
He nods, and it’s then I realize what we’re doing. We’re clearing up all the misunderstandings. He’s searching, making sure nothing goes unsaid.
Because barring more unexpected run-ins at the community college, after this I’m never going to see Will again. I’m not going to get to tell him how nursing school goes, or how things end up with my family. I’m not going to get to read his book and cheer him on and share jokes over sugary snacks.
He’s only been back in my life a few weeks, but already I’m losing so much more than the possibility of a romance. I’m losing a friend. I’m losing him.
He gives me a gentle smile, and it’s one I could stand to see for the rest of my life. “I’m glad about the nursing thing, though,” he says. “I’m really happy for you, Gabby.”
I try to smile back, but it comes out as a pained wince. “What you should be really happy about is that if I can start to figure things out, you definitely should be able to. With way fewer microwave fires and cake decorating classes.”
He raises an eyebrow, and I shake my head. “Never mind. Just . . . take care, Will.”
“Thank you,” he says. “For the ice cream, and for everything.”
I say goodbye and leave with tears burning unshed in my eyes. I hate myself—both for letting him see how much this hurts me, and not staying and letting him see the rest of what’s going on in my head.
It doesn’t matter. It’s over before it even really began. My heart feels like it’s going to break into a thousand pieces, or maybe already has. It’s time to leave Will behind me now.
Or soon, anyway. I realize there’s one more thing I need to do, a way I can say goodbye and let him know that I’ll always wish the best for him. On the way home I stop by a costume shop and buy a cheap top hat. At the post office I seal it in a box with a note I write on the back of a customs form that the postal employee looks askance at me for repurposing:
Will-
No matter what, you’re a real writer, and you always have been. You just need the proper finish. -Gabby
(Sorry there’s no monocle. The costume shop was sold out. Which is kind of strange. Is there some Sesame Street convention in town and everyone decided to go as the Count?)
No matter what happened between us, I hope he will take this to heart, and believe.
Twenty-Six
Four Weeks Later
I carefully balance the stack of papers and books along with my large orange mango smoothie while unlocking the door to my apartment, relieved when I manage to set it all down on the counter without turning my books and notes and self a very bright shade of orange. Normally the sight of all this paperwork and study material would make me want to scurry to the nearest mall to apply for a job cleaning fro-yo dispensers, but after the first day of my five-week training course to be a certified nursing assistant, I am actually . . . excited.
Not that we did a ton today to kick in the fear instinct, but I filled out paperwork like a pro, didn’t manage to kill anyone—dummies or otherwise—didn’t start any break room fires, and honestly found myself interested in everything the instructor was saying.
Plus, after my stint at Passion Medical, I have learned one very important truth about myself: I really like working in scrubs.
The training is just one step in a process to nursing school that turns out is much more difficult than just going back to my college and hoping they’ll usher me into the nursing program on the merits of the Soap Opera Digest article that mentions me (by name!) as the woman who saved Bridget Messler. But my guidance counselor helped me get enrolled in the right pre-reqs for next fall, and assured me that working as a CNA would be a huge help in getting a much-coveted spot in the school.
No guarantees, but then again, my life has never seemed particularly given to fit with the typical guarantees.
Like, for instance . . . how my traitorous brain keeps checking and rechecking my phone with a regularity reserved for day traders and Candy Crush addicts, just to see if somehow my ringer got turned off and a text or call made it through without me noticing. Hoping to hear something—anything—from Will, even though everything about that last conversation screamed well . . . last.
My bright mood darkens with the thought, but I push it aside. New Gabby tries not to focus on all the things that can, and have, gone wrong. After all, focusing on them can’t change the past, and it’s never stopped these things from happening in the future.
Now, though, my Will thoughts are offset somewhat with the much healthier school plans and figuring out student loans and actually paying attention to Anna-Marie’s tales of the new guy she’s dating, Max, the cute boom mic operator for Passion Medical, who also has connections to another soap on the lot, Southern Heat. And now that she just found out she got the role as Southern Heat’s sexy debutante Maeve LaBlanche, I expect to hear more on-set intrigues soon as well.
A knock on the door jerks me out of my study of the mess I’ve made on the counter and decision of whether I should move these things to my bedroom to leave counter space for tonight’s now-weekly Girls Night In (sponsored by Doritos and Wine, naturally). I open it, with the usual hopeful twinge that maybe I’ll find Will standing there.
Instead, I find my mom.
“Mom,” I say, trying to sound slightly more pleased than just plain shocked. It doesn’t work. “What are you doing here? Is Felix okay?”
My mother raises an eyebrow, especially as she looks me up and down, taking in my scrubs (which may not be covered in smoothie, but do already have a mustard stain over my left boob from lunch). “Are you back on the show?”
“No, mom, it’s for the CNA training I . . . Is everything okay?”
“Of course. I can’t come visit my daughter?”
A normal mother could, I want to say. A normal mother probably would have at some point in the last several years. My mother, as far as I’m aware, has never actually been to my apartment before.
“Um, yeah, I guess.” I shift uncomfortably. “Do you want to come in?”
“I’d prefer that to standing out on the stoop like some religious zealot.” This is said with a little more wry amusement and a little less biting tone than usual.
“Okay, yeah. Come on in.” I wonder what she’ll think of my small apartment, with its cluttered counter and sink full of dishes, with the well-worn and wine-stained couch and the tangle of cords from Anna-Marie’s various game systems.
And then I realize I don’t care. It’s my life, and I’m at a point where I actually like it this way, cluttered and stained and all.
Though the presence of a certain adorable writer I can’t stop thinking about would certainly improve things.
Surprisingly, she doesn’t say anything about the state of my apartment, or even give so much as a pointed sniff. She does, however, look at the strewn paperwork and books on my counter. “So you’re really doing this nursing school thing?”
“Yeah,” I say, a small flush of pride welling in me. “I am. I mean, it’ll take time to get into the school and there’s some classes I need to do first. But I’m going to do it.”
She meets my eyes, and her lips twitch into the smallest smile. “I showed all my friends that article about you in the soap opera magazine. It certainly beats Marcy Schulman’s daughter starting that charity for kids with malaise.”
“Isn’t it for orphaned kids in Malaysia?”
She rolls her eyes. “Either way. Saving Bridget Messler’s life makes for much better lunch conversation.”
I laugh, shaking my head. I shouldn’t want any part of being compared to her friends’ daughters, but I will admit I’m ridiculously happy I finally did something that merits being mentioned at one of her ladies’ lunches.
I don’t expect mom to actually say she’s proud of me, not in those words. But this, for my mom, is the equivalent of her hiring a sky-writer to spell it out for me.
I smile down at the books on the counter, because I’m not sure I’m ready to show her how much that means to me.
“Felix is doing well, though, yeah?” I ask after an awkward moment. “He texted me the other day. He thinks one of the nurses there is pretty cute.”
“Yes, and the week before it was one of the receptionists. I’m starting to think he considers rehab to be nothing more than a really expensive place to pick up women.” But she is smiling while she says this. Felix is doing well. I’m sure it won’t be the end of his troubles, but I’m so happy he’s making progress, and texting me again.
“That was one thing I wanted to talk to you about,” she says, and suddenly she looks nervous. My stomach squeezes at the sight. Are there any more major family problems that can possibly still be unloaded after the last few months?
“I sold the Lladros,” she says, quickly. I blink, confused. I mean, I’m surprised she did that, given her attachment to them, but I can see how there might not be much room for them in her small (but impeccably furnished) townhouse.
“Um, good?” I’m not sure how to respond. “Is that what you wanted to do?”
She makes a dismissive gesture. “I decided I didn’t need them anymore. They were memories of a life I no longer really need.”
I’m not sure if she means that she no longer needs the memories or the life, but I decide not to make her elaborate.
“The point is,” she continues, “I used the money to buy Felix’s cello back.” She purses her lips, as if steeling herself for a bad reaction from me.
“That’s fantastic!” I can’t help but grin, knowing that Felix will have his cello back, like being given back part of his very soul.
She narrows her eyes. “Felix said that you refused to help him get it. That you said you’d just be supporting him in using the drugs by doing that.”
“Well, yeah. Because it was different then. He was a mess. Now he’s actually getting help. And working at it.” It is different, isn’t it? It feels like it is. Not that Felix would never slip again, or make mistakes, but I can’t help but feel that he would never sink so low again as I saw him on the street that day.
Or at least I really, truly hope so.
Her expression relaxes. “Good. I hoped you’d agree.”
And then it occurs to me: Mom wants my approval.
She values my opinion.
I can’t remember the exact words I said when I yelled at her and Dana that day, but apparently I’m better at righteous speechifying than I thought.
Or maybe she, too, realized that my life isn’t any more messed up than the rest of theirs. And that maybe, that sort of thing isn’t actually a competition.
She clears her throat, and reaches into her large Louis Vuitton handbag (which somehow survived the eBay purge, though I distinctly remember Dana tossing it on the “to sell” pile) and pulls out something wrapped in a silk scarf. “I saved one for you, though.”
I unwind the scarf and find the Lladro statue I always loved the most, the graceful ballerina, reaching towards the sky with her long, elegant arms. Confident. Luminous.
Tears fill my eyes as I take it from her hands. “This was always my favorite,” I say. And what’s more, I don’t remember ever telling her that.
“I know,” she said. “You used to sit in front of the case and draw that ballerina over and over again.”
I blink back the tears, and then throw my arms around her, hugging her tight. She stiffens a bit, and then relaxes into me, squeezing me equally tightly against her.
“Of course,” she says, speaking over my shoulder, “it was hard to be sure that’s what you were drawing. You were a terrible artist.”
I laugh. “Thanks, Mom,” I say. And I mean it.
The apartment feels emptier after my mom leaves, off to go out to dinner with Dana and Paul (who are back to living in the same house now, though I imagine they’ve put off any Greek Isle cruises for awhile). She’s invited me, but I don’t want the moment we had tainted by the inevitable misery of another family dinner.
I know my limits.
I set my Lladro Ballerina on the nightstand by my bed and stare at her for a few minutes, until I hear my phone ding with a text.
My heart twists, still stupidly hoping it’s Will.
Again, I am wrong. It’s Anna-Marie. I remind myself that it’s better this way. No need to put us both through months of trying to be together before ultimately realizing we can’t outrun the past. I have a shiny new career to look forward to and, like I once said to Will, I don’t need a man to fix me.
Still, I can’t help but wonder, if I hadn’t spent so much time with him on set, if perhaps when things inevitably fell apart with Sarah, he would have been the one calling me.
I shake myself, turning my thoughts to the message that I do have, even if it’s not the one I wish it was.
Hey, come meet me at Fong’s! I have some news we need to celebrate!
I’m surprised by Anna-Marie’s choice of celebration location, but maybe that last Breakup Tub she ate with me made her come around. I’m eager to hear how work went today, not to mention her lunch with Bridget, who has started taking her under her wing since we visited her in the hospital and explained the whole statue situation.
Bridget didn’t seem nearly so upset that her statue was broken in a sex-related incident as she was that June Blair had nothing to do with it. I left the hospital with the distinct feeling that the old dame was already thinking of something else to create a feud with June over.
Now?
Yes. I’m already there.
I agree to meet her and head out. I personally have no problem kicking off Doritos and Wine night with ice cream, but I have a feeling I’m going to hear about it tomorrow when Anna-Marie spends the day doing cardio beatboxing, or whatever the latest fad workout DVD is.
Fortunately, it only takes me a few minutes to get to Fong’s. I walk in, and am immediately surprised to see someone other than Su-Lin at the hostess station. Instead, a bored-looking red-haired kid in his late teens slumps over the table.
“Table for one?” he asks as soon as he sees me in the scrubs I have yet to change out of.
I ignore the insinuation. “Where’s Su-Lin?” Not that she has to live here or anything, but it feels strange to see anyone else in her place.
He shrugs lazily. “She quit. Her YouTube videos got big. You know, the ones where she does the sock puppet reality show? The Real Sockwives of LA?”
“Her what?” I can’t believe I’ve never heard this from her. Then again, I was always so focused on myself when coming in here, I never got to really know Su-Lin.
“Yeah, they’re pretty cool. She was on the Ellen show last week and everything.”
“Wow,” I say. Good for her. I wasn’t a particularly great friend, apparently, but I am really happy for her.
“So,” the kid drawls. “Table for—”
My heart stops, because I have just looked past the new kid at a booth facing the door, and in it sits—
Will. It’s Will, and he’s watching me with a mixture of surprise and nervousness. He looks like he’s about to throw up, actually, and I have a sudden panic that he’s meeting someone else here—a tall, willowy blonde with a silhouette identical to Sarah’s who will sweep in any moment to meet her new boyfriend for dinner.
Will recovers first, forcing a smile. “Hey, Gabby!”
I stare, trying to think of a way to spare us both the awkwardness and gracefully make an exit without appearing like I’m running away.
I come up with nothing. Running away is starting to seem like a good option.
Will swallows. “Want to join me?” he asks, indicating to the other side of his booth.
“Um,” I say. “Are you not expecting anyone? I mean, not that I can judge, I come here alone all the time, but . . .” My face flushes. Yes, running away would have been a far better idea than admitting that. Now I’m pathetic and easily startled.
No. That’s Old Gabby. New Gabby was just asked to join the guy she’s still madly in love with for dinner.
“I mean,” I say, “yeah, I’d love to.”
I sit down, though Will looks more nervous than I’ve ever seen him, possibly even more than when he was helping us break in to Passion Medical.
“I’ll get that Breakup Tub,” New Kid says.
Oh, god.
Will and I aren’t even dating. Is he about to tell me once and for all that he’s realized I was just a distraction from his bad relationship, that our connection wasn’t any more real than Sarah’s with Ryan?
Or . . . “Did I get you hooked on the Breakup Tub?” I ask. “Because it’s good to know I’m not the only one who comes here and orders it alone.”
“I was expecting someone, actually,” Will says, and despite my determination to be New Gabby, I have another image of Willowy Blonde, who is now wearing high heels and a cocktail dress, even though I doubt anyone in the history of ever has worn that attire to Fong’s.
“You, I mean,” Will says. “I was expecting you.”
It takes me a minute to understand what he means. “Anna-Marie,” I say.
He nods. “Yeah, I asked her to get you here. Seemed like a good idea at the time.” His eyebrows draw together, and I am suddenly struck by a realization: Will is worried that I might not be happy to see him.
This should actually make me feel more confident, but my mind is boggled by it. My palms sweat against the cracked vinyl of the booth. Though now that I’m no longer under the impression he’s horrified to see me here, that fluttery feeling in my stomach I’ve come to associate with him returns in full force.
New Kid brings us a Breakup Tub with two spoons jutting out, and ice cream already sliding over the edges.
“I don’t know if you already ate,” Will says, “but hopefully you still have some room for dessert?”
“Always,” I say. “Especially here.”
