Expiration Dates: A Novel (2 page)

He rolls his eyes. “All right, good night.”

I watch him check the street both ways and then jog across, up the block, before I get inside. I open my bag. Sure enough, there are two missed calls from Hugo, and a text:
Must b good. I'm at Laurel. U coming?

And then I take out the paper. It occurs to me that I should not have stuffed it down into my bag. I should preserve its integrity. It is, after all, the final note. The one I have been waiting for. It shouldn't be bent or crinkled.

Luckily, it's held up well. Just some granola crumbs. I brush them off.

Jake
, it reads. No more, no less.

Just finished
, I write.
Give me twenty.

I want to tell someone, and he's the only one I can. Daphne Bell has finally met her match.

Hugo, three months.

We met in an acting class, or outside an acting class, rather. Neither one of us was there to act. I was picking up a young actor who had recently been hired for a new show on the network that employed me as an assistant. We were due back on the Warner Bros. Studio lot in fifteen minutes, and the class was running over. At this rate, if we left now, we'd be ten minutes late.

I was standing by the doors to the studio in Hollywood, hopping from foot to foot and checking my watch, when a guy who looked like he was auditioning for the James Dean reboot showed up beside me.

“You're late,” I told him. “The class is almost over.”

He had arrived in a convertible Porsche. It was parked haphazardly next to Sullivan.

“I'm picking someone up,” he said. “I'm not an actor.”

I laughed. Because honestly? I'd never seen someone who
looked more like one. And my life at the time consisted of mainlining audition tapes most of my waking hours.

He kept watching me. “I'm trying not to be insulted,” he said.

“You're wearing a white shirt and a leather jacket.”

He looked down at his torso, considered it. “You should have seen what I had on before this.”

I noticed his stature, how tall he was. I'm not a short woman, five foot seven without a slouch, but he was towering. Hold-your-head-back-in-your-hand-and-look-up kind of tall.

“How about yourself?”

“Also not an actor.”

“That part I got,” he said. He smiled at me. He had some serious dimples. “Seeing as how you seem to have disdain for the profession.”

“I never said that.”

His eyes flitted briefly from the ground and back up to me. “You didn't have to. I'm Hugo, by the way.” He stuck out his hand.

“Daphne.”

His fingers were long and cool. He had a silver ring around his pointer.

Then all at once the doors burst open and out walked the class.

My actor, Dionte, led the pack. A twenty-two-year-old kid with a smile that made me feel vaguely Mrs. Robinson–esque. “We're late, I know. He wouldn't let us leave before scene study.”

Dionte pivoted my elbow and started leading me back to the car. But not before I saw a slender brunette slip herself into Hugo's arms.

Obviously
, I thought.

I ran into him again five weeks later. By that point I had
become somewhat of a fixture on the Speiser/Sturges circuit. Dionte didn't drive—his father had died in a motorcycle accident when he was just twelve years old, and it put him off being behind the wheel. So every Tuesday and Thursday I'd pick him up after class and bring him back to set.

It was now early June, and the weather in LA was turning from jeans and a T-shirt to tank top, shorts, and a water bottle.

When I arrived in the parking lot, Hugo was already there. This time he was wearing a white-and-blue button-down and a pair of loafers. He looked like Clooney.

I wasn't sure he'd recognize me, but as soon as I stepped out of my car, he waved.

“Daphne, hi.”

“Hugo, right?”

He smiled wide. “Still not an actor. Although I did take up talk to text, briefly, if that counts.” He held up his hand. “Carpal tunnel.”

“The modern injury.” I hooked my bag over my shoulder and took some steps toward the door.

“Who are you here for?”

“An actor.”

He looked amused.

“I have to pick him up for work. I'm an assistant at CBS. He's on a new one-hour drama.”

Hugo nodded. I didn't ask his motivations; they seemed obvious.

“Do you like it?”

“Picking him up?”

Hugo coughed out a laugh. “No, the show.”

“Haven't seen it.”

Once again the doors opened. Dionte walked out, similarly concerned about the time. I let him get into the car and made my way back slowly. I was just opening the door when I saw a girl fling her arms around Hugo's neck. She was not the same girl from five weeks ago. This girl had blond hair. And a belly ring.

“Are we late?” Dionte asked from the passenger seat.

“Yes, but the great news is you can just blame me,” I told him. “That's what I'm here for. Your call-time shield.”

The following Tuesday Hugo's Porsche was parked neatly in a spot, and Hugo was sitting on the hood. Jeans, black polo, one foot planted on the tire, the other dangling toward the ground.

“Are you just doing a round-robin of the whole class?” I asked.

“Hello,” he said. He looked genuinely happy to see me, but also that's how his face was. Always animated—you could read how fast his mind worked by how emotive his face got. “What are you getting at?”

“That actresses in this class seem to be your type.”

He looked to the door and then back to me. “Maybe I'm just the type of the actresses in this class.”

“That line is a rip-off.” I locked my car behind me.

“Jack Nicholson,” he said. “I know.”

Annoyingly, I felt my stomach pinch. He knew Nancy Meyers.

“I'm starting to feel like we're parents in the carpool lane,” I said.

“First off, I really wish you wouldn't cast me in a paternal role here. Secondly, I'm not here to pick up anyone today. In fact, I need to jet before class lets out. Cassandra really fucking hates me now.”

“You're kidding,” I deadpanned.

“You're funny.”

“So why are you here?”

Hugo unhooked his foot from the tire and stood. “To see you, obviously.”

I snorted. Hugo's eyes went wide.

“No way.”

Hugo nodded. “Way.”

He was attractive. Tall, dark, handsome. Well-dressed, clearly successful. But he was also arrogant, that much was as obvious as the cologne that wafted over to me in waves. And arrogance tended to devolve into unkindness quickly. I wasn't interested.

Plus, there was no paper. No name, no amount of time.

“I'm flattered, maybe, but I'm not your type,” I said.

“Why's that?”

“Just trust me on this one.”

“Oh, I do, but I'm curious.”

Dionte came outside. He was alone. “Scene study is running over, but Tracy said I could leave.” He looked at Hugo. “Hey, man.”

“Hey.”

“I didn't want to make them wait. Julie hates it when I'm late.” Dionte pivoted toward Sullivan.

Hugo came over to open the door for me. I stepped inside, and he closed it using the window.

“I think you're fun. And sexy,” he said, leaning down. I felt myself blush but ignored it. “Can you just give me your phone number?” He dangled his cell phone back and forth through the window.

I glanced at Dionte in the passenger seat, busying himself with a script, pretending not to hear what he clearly could.

“I'm not like other people,” I told him.

Hugo narrowed his eyes at me. “I know.”

I started the car. Hugo backed away from the door.

“Hey,” he said. “Hang on. Shit. Looks like you got a ticket.” He plucked the paper off my windshield and handed it to me.

I opened it, using my body to shield the words.
Hugo, three months.

I couldn't tell if I was relieved or angry. The last relationship I'd had was four years earlier—for six months—and I'd been handed long weekends ever since.

But here we were. At the start of ninety days.

I pointed to his phone.

“Hand it over,” I said.

Hugo is tucked up into his corner courtyard table when I get there. I duck into Laurel Hardware off Santa Monica Boulevard, waving to the hostess and descending the stairs to their back patio. It's a beautiful space—tables scattered throughout and lights strung up from overhead trees. Casual, fun, and the food is epic. “Lollipop” Brussels sprouts, duck fried rice, and the best pan-seared salmon I've ever had.

I expect to see Natalie next to him, but instead there are three guys at the table, one of whom I recognize as the manager of this very place.

“You're here,” Hugo says. “Amazing.”

He leans up and kisses me on the cheek. “Daph, this is Sergio and Irwin; you know Paul—” He cocks his head at the manager; I give him a half-wave. “And, guys, this is Daphne.”

I take a seat. Hugo hands me a tequila soda. My after-hours drink of choice. Now Hugo drinks them, too.

“We're taking off,” Irwin says. “But look, Hugo, if you talk to Alexandra and she agrees, then we'd consider it.”

Hugo nods. “I really think it's a great opportunity, guys.”

“Just let us know,” Sergio says. He turns to me. “Pleasure.”

“You too.”

They depart, and Paul goes back to work.

“Are those the guys talking about 820 Sunset?”

“Yep. They stayed another night to tour the space today. I canceled dinner with Natalie. She wants to fucking kill me.”

“What's new?”

Hugo shoots me a look. “Don't start. It's been a day.”

“I thought that sounded like good news.” I point to the guys, to where they've just gone inside.

“Alexandra is never going to agree. She thinks commercial real estate is dead, and they know that. They're playing me.”

Alexandra is Hugo's business partner. I've met her a few times. She's an ex–naval officer turned finance wizard, and somehow has time for three kids, to boot. From what I understand about Hugo's job, he convinces very rich men (like Sergio and Irwin) to invest in very expensive buildings in the hopes that real estate is always on the up. 820 Sunset is their new prize.

“So,” he says. “How was it?”

I take a sip of my drink; it's strong. I'm not a lightweight, though. I had two margaritas at dinner and just feel pleasantly buzzy.

“Different,” I say.

Hugo leans back and puts an arm over the empty chair next to him. “What does
that
mean?”

“Hugo,” I say. “The paper was blank.”

Hugo is the only one who knows about this love-life oddity, this strange anomaly in the cosmic universe of which I am the recipient and participant.

“Bullshit.”

“I'm serious.” I can feel my heartbeat in my ears. I haven't let myself think about what this means, not really, not entirely. Not yet.

I see Hugo's face react. Surprise to confusion to something else that I do not wish to identify. “Wow.”

“Yeah,” I say. “Wow. He seems great. His name is a Jake. He's a television executive for Warner Brothers.”

“Of course he is.” Hugo thinks anyone who works in entertainment is “low speed.”
It's an industry full of people who are semi-available eleven to four and think they're brokering world peace.

“Hey,” I say. I point my finger at him. “Be cool.”

“What do you think this means?”

I shrug. “Only one thing it can mean, right?”

Hugo nods. “I sort of thought if it would happen it would say, like, forty years.”

I swallow down some more tequila. “I guess no second marriages here.”

“Blank space,” he says. “Like forever?”

I clear my throat. “Or until time runs out. Dependent on how you look at it.”

“How uplifting.” Hugo leans forward. He holds up his glass. He's drinking Scotch or whiskey—I never know the difference. “Daph, do you like him? Like, is he who you imagined for yourself?”

I consider the question. I didn't realize there was a pattern to the notes until well into high school. After the third one it became clear—what they meant, what they were telling me. I looked back and thought,
Huh
, and then,
Oh
. But I still wanted forever love. I still wanted my perfect mate, my smiling husband. I'd picture the white tulle dress and the lace veil and a man who was kind and attractive and who my parents loved, because why not.

But as time went on, the fantasy got stale. I tried to update it, keep it fresh. Sometimes we eloped to the cliffs of Capri. Sometimes we went to Vegas and I wore a tight white minidress. And the man evolved from being kind of amorphous to being specific, detailed. Mariah Carey and Frank Sinatra replaced Disney tunes, and then we rounded the corner into Van Morrison. What can I say? I wanted a love story that
sung
.

Sitting here with Hugo now, talking about Jake, I can't help but feel like he's a little bit of a throwback, that he belongs to a Daphne who didn't quite understand her life yet. Or who maybe believed more was possible than any thirty-three-year-old woman has any right to.

“He's really nice,” I say.

Hugo snorts. “He's
nice.
”

“Nice is underrated.”

“You're probably right.” He sets down his drink. “Well, look, I'm happy for you. When do I get to meet him?”

“We should go on a second date first.”

“You mean before you break the news to him that he's your soul mate and also your best friend looks like this?” Hugo gestures a hand down his torso.

“Right, something like that.”

His cell on the table rings. “It's her.”

“Pick up.”

He does. “Hey, babe, how are you?”

I can hear her through the phone. I can't make out her words, but the tone is clear—she's not happy.

“I know, listen. Hey. Hey.” His voice gets soft. “I'm sorry. Listen. Genuinely, I am.” He turns away from me and cups the receiver, even though it makes no difference, I can hear every word. “I'll make it up to you, I promise.” He pauses. “Yes. I know, babe. I do. OK. OK, bye.” He hangs up.

“That went well.”

Hugo shakes his head and downs the rest of his drink. “I don't know. Work is so strenuous and chaotic lately. I feel like I don't have time to breathe.”

“You like it that way.”

Hugo looks across at me. “Do I?”

“I'm sorry, are you intimating you'd rather be at home with Natalie right now than trying to charm Tweedledum and Tweedledee into a two-hundred-million-dollar building?”

Hugo grins. “You're right.”

I hold my glass up to him. “To your future,” I say.

“And to yours. Looking bright.”

I think about Jake. About the kiss on the cheek.

“Bright or radioactive?”

Hugo considers this. “A lifetime with you could only be one thing.”