“They asked if she’d spoken to you, and she said no.” Bristol laughs a little, something as close as she’ll come to admiration on her face. “They pressed her for more intel, but she didn’t budge. When they asked for a big secret of yours, she told them you like hummus.”
I can’t help but chuckle. God, I miss my girl. I’d eat a bowlful of her hummus that tastes like butt if I could see her. Maybe she lied to the radio host and she is seeing Dub. I don’t know. Doesn’t matter. If she is seeing him, that shit ends as soon as she gets home. She’ll forgive me and we’ll go back to normal. We have to. That’s the only option.
“You should listen to the whole thing online. Fascinating interview. She held her own.” Bristol’s smug smile gives me pause. “She also directed Qwest to reach out to me about working with Grip.”
“But you’re not Marlon’s manager.” I lift one brow. “I wasn’t under the piano that long. You’re not repping him yet, are you?”
“Ah, the operative word being ‘yet.’” Bristol leans back and links her hands behind her head. “He loves Qwest. If I bring her to the table, maybe he’ll reconsider.”
It’s not gonna happen, but I just nod. The only thing Marlon wants from Bristol is a date, and it’s the one thing she won’t give him. So . . . impasse. I’ll let them work it out. I’m trying to salvage my own relationship. I can’t be bothered with theirs.
“So you guys are cool?” Bristol bounces a look from me to Jimmi, her sharp eyes not missing a thing.
“Cool as three Fonzies,” I say.
Both girls give me blank faces.
“Come on.” I look between them. “You know. Cool like three little Fonzies.”
“Saying it again doesn’t make it less obscure,” Bristol says. “We still have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Pulp Fiction.” I check both their expressions for some recognition. Nada. “It’s near the end. They’re in the diner during the stick up, and the girlfriend comes out of the bathroom and pulls a gun. Samuel Jackson says we’re gonna be cool like three little Fonzies.”
“I’ve never actually watched Pulp Fiction all the way through,” Jimmi admits.
“You’ve never . . .” I re-order my world to accommodate having friends who haven’t seen Pulp Fiction. “Never?”
“Never, Tarantino.” Bristol stands. “Come on. You both need to get to the studio.”
I let the girls walk up the steps ahead of me, slowing until I’m standing still, holding my newly charged phone. There’s dozens of missed calls and text messages from everyone except the one person I’d give anything to hear from. Supposedly the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results. Even knowing this, I do what I’ve done almost every day for the last fifty-seven days. Send a text to Kai that will probably get deleted or ignored, but I have to try. To keep trying until she’s back in that bed, warming my sheets again.
Me: “That’s when you know you’ve found somebody really special. When you can just shut the fuck up for a minute and comfortably share silence.”
I send the movie quote and stare at the screen, but it remains stubbornly
mute. No beeping alert. No trail of bubbles telling me she’s responding. I hold the phone for a few more seconds, fooling myself that we’re sharing one of those silences between people who are special to each other, instead of the frigid wall of nothingness she’s used to freeze me out for the last two months. It doesn’t really matter. Even if she deletes every message, she’ll know I never stop trying. This is just a pause, a comma, but our relationship runs on.
I’m digging around in my pocket for the keys to the Cayenne when the phone beeps. I know it’s probably just weird timing. Probably Marlon texting me a picture of him riding his new Segway or some shit, but my heart still grinds to a halt in my chest at the possibility . . .
Pepper: “Pulp Fiction.” Come harder, Gray.
Fuck me sideways. It’s Kai.
Is there a guidebook for this conversation? I’ve proven that I’m really good at screwing things up badly. I medaled in it. After two months of text messages, voice mails, and mistletoe, I have no idea why it’s Quentin Tarrantino that convinced her to finally respond. The phone rests in my hand like a bomb with a convolution of rainbow wires. Blue? Yellow? Red? Which wire to cut? What do I say? I should probably not come on too strong. Shouldn’t ask her about Dub, even though the pictures on that Instagram account splatter in my head like brains blown onto the wall. I for sure shouldn’t demand that she come home to me as soon as she steps off that damn tour bus. Just play it cool like this isn’t twisting my stomach into roller coaster loops.
Do something, Gray. Say something, you *.
Me: I want to hear your voice. Call me.
Dammit, did that sound like an order? That’d be the last thing I’m in a position to give after I went all Captain Control Freak with her career. That was the wrong thing to say, obviously, since I stand at the door for a full minute holding a quiet phone.