“Aww,” I sigh, rubbing her back sympathetically. “What was the audition for?”
She purses her lips as she chews her donut and looks a little nervous before speaking—Louise has a habit of projecting what she’s going to say before she actually says it.
“It’s a pretty big deal. I’m trying not to think about it too much, because if I do I’ll drive myself crazy.”
“Smart.”
“Yeah,” she says, as we stop to check out a rack of psychedelic-patterned shirts. “It’s a pilot for a TV show. Kind of a…speculative, crime-thriller type thing. Like Supernatural, but not. Almost like the old X-Files, but not that either. But it’s fucking great.”
“Sounds pretty interesting. You actually like the writing, or just the show idea?”
Louise leans forward, quickly glancing aside and lowering her voice to say, “I love the writing. That’s the thing. See, my character’s kind of a bit-part player, but it’s obvious that whoever’s writing this likes her. Her dialogue is so funny and sharp, and she’s totally kick ass. So if the show gets picked up, I think my character’s going to be one of the stars before the end of the first season.”
I nod appreciatively and smile. “Your character?”
“Oh god, did I say that out loud?” Louise tosses the sleeve she’s fingering away and turns back into the crowd. “I’m trying not to think about it like that. Why do I always get my hopes up?”
“Since when did hope become a bad thing?” I ask through a mouthful of donut (even though I swear my manners are normally better than that).
“Since I realized how much it can crush you,” Louise says, cutting off a sad sigh with another bite of donut. She smiles at me afterward, licking a bit of blueberry glaze off her lip. Sometimes eating your feelings isn’t such a bad thing.
We saunter slowly, deeper into the market. Stopping every once in a while to examine an ornately patterned mirror or old cookie-tins with beautifully drawn images on them.
“Owen would love these,” I say absently, as I open up the drawer on a bleached mahogany nightstand. “He probably bought half his stuff here.”
“Owen?” Louise says, and I glance over to see her face screwed up in thought. “You still hang out with him? God, I used to have such a crush on him!”
“Well we’ve been working together for a year, so yeah, you could say we hang out.”
Louise grins.
“And you keep ‘forgetting’ to give me his number.”
“I didn’t forget,” I say, suddenly self-conscious that I’m talking about Owen when I’d done such a great job keeping my mind off him. “I told you all about him. He’s too dangerous for you. He’s not boyfriend material.”
Louise shrugs sassily.
“Guys that good-looking rarely are—but they make great bootycall material.”
Something sticks in my throat and I start coughing, bending over almost double.
“Oh god! Margo, are you ok?!” Louise says, pounding me on the back as she rummages around in her purse. “Here, I have water.” She pulls out a plastic bottle and hands it to me.
I take it gratefully and sip until I can breathe easy and catch my breath.
“Was it the donut?” she asks.
“Ha. No. Sorry,” I say, taking another slow sip. “Dry throat…I’ve had a hell of a weekend.”
“Mm hmm,” Louise nods, but she’s wearing an expression I haven’t seen since she played a detective in her demo reel.
We continue on, rubbing shoulders with hipsters looking for stuff that looks old and old people looking for stuff that looks new. I buy a couple of old paperbacks, classics with kitschy covers printed in the 1970’s, while Louise hems and haws over a hand-knitted scarf she saw when we first entered. A couple of young girls come up to me and ask for a selfie with the ‘cat lady,’ to Louise’s amusement, and I go on a long rant about my job and the New York Month interview until Louise calms me down with a little pep talk—though I quickly realize it’s only to rush me back through the market to pull the trigger on that scarf.
As she’s paying the woman at the stall, who’s savvy enough to spot a shopaholic when she sees one and begins offering Louise a bunch of other stock, I get a text on my phone.
It’s Owen.
My heart thumps, and I bite my lip to stop myself from smiling, or cringing, or both.
You left your panties at my apartment. You’re too good of a writer for that kind of cliché…want them back on Monday?
I glance up surreptitiously to check and make sure nobody is noticing that I’m freaking out a little, then type out a quick reply.
You can keep them. Maybe add to your collection?
Owen’s reply is almost immediate. Too quick for me to regret going for a goofy joke rather than just a single-word answer.
You sure? Don’t you need them? I hear it’s hard to get your panties in a bunch if you haven’t actually got any panties to begin with.
I stifle a giggle and try to push down the heat of my chest. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing, and I sure as shit don’t know what Owen’s doing either. This is a long way from the awkward silences and overly-polite small talk I was expecting between us after what we did yesterday. Is Owen actually flirting with me? Does he want to carry this on? I will never let a man tell me that women are a mystery ever again…
I’m in the middle of a response when Louise snaps my attention away.
“Who are you texting?”
I look up and see that detective-look again. She really is made for the role.
“Nobody. You done?” I reply nonchalantly, already stepping away.
“Whoa!” Louise says, grinning like she’s struck gold as she keeps pace beside me. “Oh no! I know when you’re lying, Margo. Who was that?” Her expression changes suddenly, going hard and judgmental. “Was that Carl? It was Carl, wasn’t it? Are you still talking to him after the way he treated you?”
“No!” I hastily tuck my phone into my bag and turn away, trying to project indignant annoyance instead of blushing guilt.
Louise grabs my arm and spins me around to face her directly.
“Are you seriously grinning like a prom date while texting with that no-talent, sleazy, Jim Jarmusch wannabe? Don’t tell me you’re getting back together!” Louie exclaims loudly, arms wide, imploring the heavens before covering her face with her hands. She pulls them away to reveal the crippling sadness she feels at her self-concocted revelation. “You think you still love him, don’t you? You just can’t get him out of your system. It’s that whole needy, sensitive artist thing, isn’t it? You can’t fix him, Margo! Let him go!”
I stare blankly at Louise’s pained face.
“Cut the dramatics, Louise, I’m not a member of the Oscar academy. It’s not Carl.”
“Then why were you smiling all suspicious like that? You’re clearly hiding something.”
“It was Owen. We were just…just an inside joke at work.”
Louise leans in to stare into my eyes, as if she’s trying to detect a lie. I stare back and laugh, “Can I please write a reply, now?”
“Sure,” Louise says slyly, as we start walking again. “Go right on ahead.”