Remember When 2 (27 page)

   The severing of ties to my job, however, was instantaneous. It took all of ten minutes to pack up my desk, say goodbye to Rajani, and leave. I looked like a bad caricature of a canned employee with my box of personal items, half-dead plant sticking out the top and all. At least Devin hadn’t called security to monitor my exodus, which was pretty standard protocol for something like that. God forbid a disgruntled ex-employee made off with an unauthorized roll of company toilet paper. But Devin must have decided to take mercy on me and let me handle my departure on my own.

   And the breakup. He let me handle that on my own, too.

   No theatrical chase after me, no public declaration of his enduring love and devotion, no
drama
was played out in front of our co-workers. It wouldn’t have been very Devin-like to ever cause a scene, but it was a slight blow to my pride that he hadn’t put up more of a fight.

   Instead, he just let me go.

   I sidled up to the bar at
Roebling
, the closest watering hole near Howell, plunking my box of failure on the neighboring seat. The place was practically empty, save for the few suits at a nearby table indulging in a liquid lunch. I took my dead plant out of the box and set it on the bar next to me.

   When the bartender came to take my order, I said, “I’ll have a Yuengling, please. And a shot of Absolut for my friend, here.”

   Just one short hour before, I was a woman on the brink of literary success, engaged to a real up-and-comer in the media world, looking toward a fresh new chapter in my life.

   A few minutes later, and I was unemployed, single, and sitting in a bar in the middle of the afternoon.

   What a difference a day makes.

  
When I was a kid, I looked so forward to being a "grown-up"- which, in my mind, was defined as anyone older than me, whether by two years or by fifty. I idolized them and thought that being grown-up meant doing whatever I wanted; staying up a half hour past bedtime or stealing kisses in my room with the cutest guy in school. Driving a car. Getting a job. Everything these “grown-ups” did seemed steeped in a maturity and rationality that my childlike brain couldn't fathom. Oh, to be so cool....

   What no one ever tells you is how misleading it all is. Being a grown-up is really about making choices that rarely have a clear winner, then
 hoping upon all hopes that some of those choices will even remotely pan out.

   A lot of them don’t.

   Staying up late and getting up early only leads to exhaustion. Agreeing to marry a man simply because he asked is a recipe for disaster. Working at a job you loathe eventually turns to resentment.

   The thing of it is, being a grown-up is downright petrifying.
 

   And when your plans don’t work out, when your choices turn out to be all wrong… You find yourself alone and defeated, not knowing where to turn.

   I probably should have called Lisa. I knew I could have talked to my dad.

   But the only voice I really wanted to hear at that moment was Trip’s.

   Jeez, I probably needed a
team
of therapists to straighten out my brain. How is it that I’d just broken it off with my fiancé, yet the relationship I was more devastated over was the one I didn’t even know how to classify?

   It wasn’t too late. I knew he’d probably be angry that I kept him waiting the night before, but I also knew that he’d forgive me. I was only hesitant because I didn’t know quite what I’d be signing up for, but the truth was, I didn’t even care. However he wanted me, it would be enough.

   Who cared if it would just be a fling? This is what Trip and I do. We finally pull our shit together and have sex in our final hours before one of us takes off forever. I could do this. Even if one afternoon was all it turned out to be.

   I knew just seeing his face would be the best way to cure my blues anyhow. I could forget about my pathetic circumstances and just get lost in Trip for a while. I could worry about the rest of my life tomorrow.

   The desire was so strong, the feeling so powerful. The mere thought of being in his bed excited me and lifted my spirits. Amazing the effect that man has always had on me.

   I made myself finish my beer, then downed the shot for courage, paid my tab, and grabbed my box of crap.

   And then I headed over to the
TRU.

* * *

   Concierge Cat was on duty, and I readied myself for her smarmy attitude. But as I approached the desk, her eyes lit up in recognition and she actually gave me a smile.

   I put my stuff on one of the white sofas and asked quietly, “Did Trip Wiley check out yet?”

   She still kept the smile trained upon her lips as she responded, “We don’t have anyone here by that name, ma’am.”

   Okay, sister. I’ll play the game. “Fine. Mr. Kelly, then. Johnny Kelly.”

   She looked rather smug as she said, “Mr. Kelly checked out weeks ago.”

   I gave her a long, hard look, trying to be patient, knowing that this woman was Trip’s gatekeeper and that I’d catch more flies with honey.

   And bullshit. I could catch more flies with bullshit, too.

   The name Johnny Kelly was from
The Sting
. Knowing Trip, and knowing that, I figured I could simply guess the correct pseudonym.

   “How about Johnny Hooker. Or Henry… Gondorff, I think? Or Doyle Lonnegan?”

   “Nope, nope, and nope.”

   Not
The Sting
. Time to switch gears.

   “Okay… Jay Gatsby?”

   “Mr. Gatsby checked out last week.”

  
Paydirt.
Robert Redford it is, then.

   “Okay. Bob Woodward. Do you have a Bob Woodward staying here?”

   “Not until the televised election coverage.”

   I gave an exasperated sigh.

   “How ‘bout Waldo Pepper.”

   “Nope.”

   “Roy Hobbs.”

   “Sorry.”

   “Umm… The Sundance Kid?”

   “No.”

   “Warren Justice?”

   “Who?”

   “Brubaker?”

   Her face sparked as she gave me a conspiratorial grin. And none too soon, either. I was this close to running out of Redford characters.

   “Actually, Mr. Brubaker just checked out about an hour ago.”

   I knew Trip’s flight wasn’t until six o’clock and that there was no way he’d be spending all the hours until then hanging around the airport.

   “So… Is he in one of the restaurants?”

   “The
TRU
doesn’t make a policy of monitoring their many guests once they’ve checked out of the hotel.”

   Sweetheart, I do not have time for this.

  
“Look. You and I both know that Mr.
Brubaker
isn’t just any guest here.” I wanted to lunge across the desk and shake her, but I made myself remain calm. “Give me a break here, huh? You know I know him! Don’t you remember me? I was here a few weeks ago. Can’t you please just tell me exactly where the hell he is? It’s important.”

    She gave a chortle and said, “I’m just messing with you. He’s really not here.”

   “But his flight isn’t until six.”

   “He got an earlier one.”

   I considered the impulse to race over to the airport. “JFK?”

   “Newark, I think. No, wait. Laguardia?”

   I was in over my head. I had no idea when his new flight was leaving, but there definitely wasn’t enough time to scour three different airports.

   Just as I was considering my next move, she said, “I just messaged a package to you, by the way. You
are
that reporter from the other day, right? I knew the name on the delivery sheet looked familiar. I was supposed to send it yesterday. Sorry. I made sure to send it out first thing this morning, though, so no harm done.”

Chapter 27

WHATEVER IT TAKES

   I dragged myself home, feeling all worked up and completely let down. I’d missed my chance. Trip was gone.

   Sure enough, there was a package waiting for me on the floor near the mailboxes. It was large, but light, so I tossed it on top of my pile of stuff from the office and hauled the whole shebang up my forty-two steps, sinking to the floor in the middle of my living room to open my birthday present from Trip. No way was I waiting the extra three days until it was official.

   I ripped off the packing tape and folded back the flaps of the box.

   And when I did… my heart stopped.

   I literally gasped—a dramatic, soap-opera inhale—the air sucked quickly into my lungs, where it held, indefinitely, as my brain tried to process what my eyes were seeing. The epiphany hit me hard; a bucket of ice water thrown in my face.

   I was sitting in the middle of my apartment, surrounded by a mountain of tissue paper, and in my hands I was holding… a Dukes of Hazzard lunchbox.

   Oh. My. God.

   My stomach clenched, my chest constricted, my hands shook.

   I ran my trembling fingers across the relief map of my damaged childhood, the images of my old friends: Daisy. Luke. Bo (my
first
blond crush). I touched the raised letters of the title, noticed the slight dent on the hood of the General Lee. A shaky breath escaped, and the image blurred before my eyes. 

   There was no misreading this. Trip had sent me an innocent-looking metal box, but he may as well have mailed me his heart. Suddenly, everything made complete and perfect sense.

   Trip hadn’t been asking me for one night.

   He was asking me for forever.

   And oh my God! I sent him packing!             

   I lunged for my phone and punched in Sandy’s number. All I could think was that I had to talk to him. I had to
see
him.

   She answered, mercifully, on the second ring. “Sandy Carron.”

   “Sandy! It’s Layla Warren. I’m trying to get ahold of Trip. It’s really important.”

   “Oh, hi, Layla. Hope everything’s okay.”

  
No
. Everything was most decidedly
not
okay.

   “Yes, I just really need to talk to him.”

   “Well, last we spoke, he was at the hotel. Didn’t you try there?”

   “Yes, of course. But he already checked out. The concierge said he grabbed an earlier flight.”

   “Hmm. That’s strange. He normally has
me
rearranging his schedule.”

   She gave a chuckle, and I didn’t want to be rude, but I didn’t have time for screwing around. “Aren’t you with him?” I asked, stupidly.

   “No, I just got back to L.A. myself. I’m surprised he didn’t check in, but I guess he wouldn’t have been able to contact me if I were on a plane.”

  
Small talk. Grrr
. “Is there any way I can get in touch with him?” I knew Trip refused to own a mobile, a rebellion made much easier due to the fact that everyone in his immediate circle always had phones of their own.

   “Yeah, sure, I have to imagine he’s with Hunter, and that kid’s
always
got his phone on him. But let me try it first. I’ll call you back.”

   “Okay. You have my number.”

   “Yep. Just give me a minute.”

    I hung up with Sandy and spent my wait looking at the unconditional love I was holding in my hands. And I knew for certain that that’s what it was. That’s what he wanted me to know. I started thinking about the events from the day before, piecing together what had really been going on. He already knew he loved me before ever showing up to my apartment. Hell, the first thing he did when he walked in the door was to ask if the package had been sent.

   And oh, God! The things he’d said! How come I just couldn’t
hear
him? I replayed every sweet and wonderful thing he’d told me the day before, tortured myself with it.
Give me another chance at this. We’re so great together. I want you. I’ve always wanted you.

  
I could barely breathe through the knot in my throat, the tears gathering at my eyes, the pang that threatened to crush my heart. What a nasty witch I was to him. What a stupid, insecure, wretched, nasty witch I was. I’d thought he was only trying to talk his way into my bed, but as it turns out, he was actually trying to talk his way into my heart.

   As if he hadn’t lived there all along.

   I had loved this man once. Hell, I knew then that I still did. Every part of him. I heard his voice in my head, his simple confession on the day we’d said goodbye all those many years ago:
I’m in love with you, Layla
. For the first time in years, I allowed the memory to take root, to grow outward, to fill my entire being. I was in love with this man. I always had been. There was no denying it any longer.