Chapter 9: Flipping Channels

There’s nothing good on TV at three o’clock in the morning.

This truth holds self-evident as Dana sits downstairs in the living room in front of the big-screen, flipping channels with the remote, the room illuminated solely by the light from the television. There’s nothing on, but Dana doesn’t care. She’s not even watching anything—she just keeps changing channels rhythmically, monotonously, a zombie in front of the glowing box.

She’s detached, and she likes it that way.

It’s so much better than the alternative. It’s so much better than they crying, and the sobbing—so much better than the anger and the frustration and the paranoia. It’s better to feel nothing, than to feel hurt.

Dana came home late tonight. Band practice ran long, so she hadn’t stopped home before going to her Tai Chi class. After Tai Chi she’d stopped by her mother’s house for a visit. She got into a movie there, some dvd her mother had rented, and she lost track of time. She didn’t get home until after eleven.

She saw Kerry’s car in the driveway when she pulled up. It isn’t really unusual for Kerry to stay over, but it happens a lot less since she started working. Still, Kerry staying over wasn’t the problem. The problem came when Dana entered the house and found the bedroom door locked.

Dana and Johnny have been married for four years, and have had something of an open marriage for most of that time. Actually, open marriage may be something of a misnomer—a more accurate description might be that they occasionally invite another woman over to join them. For the last year or so, it’s been Kerry.

The arrangement worked well for Dana, at least for a while. Johnny can be distant and cold, and Kerry made up for the lack of affection that Dana sometimes felt. Dana and Kerry became quite close, more than just friends, different than just lovers. It’s a unique relationship, defying explanation and definition, and Dana likes it that way.

However, Johnny got very close to Kerry too, which annoyed Dana. The man doesn’t have a lot of affection to spread around. The more Johnny came to enjoy Kerry, the more he ignored Dana. Generally it wasn’t a problem—the three of them were together enough that Dana would feel included. But in recent months things have changed. Dana’s felt out of the loop; the two of them seem thick as thieves and Dana often feels on the outside looking in.

Normally she can handle it. She’ll talk herself out of being upset. She’ll tell herself that she’s being paranoid, or that she’s overreacting. She’ll tell herself it’s not that big a deal. But tonight… well, it’s hard to talk yourself out of a locked door.

She knows what happened. It got late, she hadn’t called, they assumed that she wasn’t coming home and they went ahead without her. She shouldn’t take it personally, but she does. How could she not? They’ve literally locked her out. Chances are that they locked the door out of habit, and if she knocked they’d probably let her in. But she doesn’t want to knock. She wants to sit in the living room and pout.

Not that they’ll notice. She’ll play the martyr, sleeping on the uncomfortable couch in the cold living room, and in the morning they won’t even mention it. Nothing will be made of the issue, unless she throws a fit about it—but she knows how that plays out. Johnny will complain about her being “dramatic” and things will just get worse and neither of them will want to have anything to do with her. It’s easier just to stay out in the living room and keep her mouth shut.

There’s a bald man on TV holding some sort of cleaning product. He’s talking, but Dana can’t hear what he’s saying because she’s got the volume down low. It doesn’t matter. Dana’s lost in her thoughts. She wonders how things got so bad. She wonders how she wound up so unhappy. When did it happen? Is there a moment, some spot in time that she can point to as the defining moment where things started going wrong?

She doesn’t know. In actuality, it doesn’t really matter. She’s unhappy now, and it doesn’t matter when it started. All that matters is what she’s going to do about it. At first she thought that Kerry might be the source of the problem. She thought that if her and Johnny stopped seeing Kerry, started having a “traditional” marriage, then things would get better. It didn’t work. Johnny just kept going on and on about wanting Kerry there, and how he didn’t understand what the problem was, and so on and so on. Johnny can really be a child when he wants things his way, and he always wants things his way.

So it didn’t last. Kerry came back, and things went back to the way they always were. Now Dana comes home to locked doors.

She wishes she’d stayed at her mother’s house. She’s done it before—and that’s what irks her. She always calls Johnny to tell him if she’s not coming home, no matter if she’s angry with him. She always calls. She didn’t call to tell him that she wasn’t coming home tonight, so why did they lock the door? Why didn’t anyone call her to ask where she was? Hell, wasn’t anyone worried about her?

And that’s just it, isn’t it? Nobody worries about her when she doesn’t come home. Instead, they go off and have sex and forget all about her. It hurts. It leaves her feeling cold and lonely, kind of like this living room does.

She knows she’s wallowing in her depression. She knows that feeling sorry for herself isn’t going to help. She contemplates calling someone, but she doesn’t really know whom. She could call Dylan—he’s always a good listener. Still, he’s wanted her to get out of this situation for so long… she just doesn’t know how sympathetic he’d be. She can’t bear to hear him tell her she needs to leave. Not tonight. She’s too fragile for a lecture.

Truth be told, Dana’s not that close to her other band mates—not close enough to go to them with something like this. She has other friends, but she just feels so disconnected from them lately. It happens like that sometimes—your relationship consumes so much of your life, so much of your attention, that other friendships fall by the wayside. Friendships are often casualties of love affairs. Naturally, Dana’s relationship is more complex than the average marriage, and as a result consumes more of her attention. As a result, her other friends feel a million miles away.

These are the toughest time, when she feels so alone. She knows that everyone goes through times like these, but knowing that other people feel alone doesn’t make her feel any less alone. She turns up the TV just a bit, just enough to hear what the bald guy is saying. She wants to hear his voice. She wants to feel like there’s someone else in the room with her.

It’s an infomercial—something about some miracle cleaning product that can get out any stain. It’s boring stuff, really. It’s a shame; if something interesting were on, it might take her mind off everything. She’s always used TV or movies as a short escape—a way to take a little vacation from her problems. A good movie will make her forget her life for a couple hours.

Unfortunately, there’s nothing good on TV at three o’clock in the morning.

Chapter 8: The Trevor Situation

“Hi, this is Rochelle. I can’t come to the phone right now, so please leave me a message. Even if you think I have your number, leave it anyways. Thanks! Bye!” BEEP.

Janet hates voicemail in general, but particularly hates Rochelle’s. That bit about leaving your number always manages to irk Janet, and as a result she always leaves her number—even though Rochelle’s got it memorized by now. It’s Janet’s little way of getting back at Rochelle for making her listen to the greeting.

“Ro, it’s Janet. I know it’s late—maybe you’ve already gone to sleep. Anyways, call me. Mary’s ex Trevor is in town this weekend. You know what that means. Call me when you get this so we can talk about it. Oh, the number is…”

It’s hard for Janet not to giggle as she gives the number. Rochelle’s never commented on it, at least not yet. Janet figures it’s only a matter of time before she snaps and starts bitching about it.

Janet’s surprised that Rochelle didn’t answer. Granted, it’s midnight, but Rochelle usually will pick up, even if she’s sleeping. Janet considers calling Ro’s cell phone, but figures the odds of her being out are pretty slim. Besides, it’s not exactly an urgent call—it’s more a preemptive preparation for the drama that’s bound to come up soon.

Mary’s ex-boyfriend Trevor is not a nice guy, but he has a certain power over Mary. She simply can’t resist him. No matter how many times he cheated on her, dumped her, made her feel like shit, she always went back to him. Janet’s friend Staci had called to give Janet the scoop. Staci knows both Janet and Mary, and had found out from Mary, which means that Mary knows Trevor is in town and has no doubt spent time with him while he’s here. Janet also realizes that Mary told Staci and not her because Mary didn’t want a lecture, and Janet would surely give her a lecture.

Trevor is bad news. He’s the kind of guy that dates a woman and hits on her friends. He’s the kind of guy that forgets not only anniversaries, but also birthdays, Valentine’s day, and just about any other special occasion. He’s the kind of guy that makes Janet love girls.

The sad part is that Mary knows all of this. She’s well aware of what an asshole Trevor is, yet she can never say no to him. Strangely, it’s not like Mary is in love with Trevor. Trevor’s actually pretty unlovable, and Mary realizes this. No, Mary is just inexplicably drawn to him. It’s almost like an addiction that she can’t kick. And, unfortunately, every relapse that she has ends in her getting hurt.

Right on cue, Janet’s phone rings. Mary sobs on the other end of the line. “Let me guess,” Janet says. “Trevor’s in town.”

********

Trevor Jacobsen stands on the balcony of his Holiday Inn hotel room, smoking a cigarette and staring out at the starless sky. He exhales a long, thin, wispy stream of silver smoke into the air, watching it twist and twirl in the gentle breeze. This is the part he hates—the part where he has to leave. It’s not that he doesn’t want to leave. It’s just that she always makes a scene, makes a big deal. Trevor’s not one for scenes.

Mary lies naked in the hotel bed, watching Trevor smoke. He can feel her eyes boring into his back. She knows what’s coming. He’s already got his jeans back on. Best to do it quick.

Trevor turns around, facing Mary, who has the sheets pulled up to her chin. She looks scared, or at least nervous. Trevor lets his cigarette fall to the ground and stubs it out with his bare foot—a trick that the Oakdale girls always find impressive. He walks back into the room, avoiding her eyes as she stares at him. He grabs his shirt off the chair and pulls it on over his head.

“Where are you going?” she asks.

“Nowhere,” he says.

“Then why are you getting dressed?”

“’Cause we’re done,’ he replies coldly.

“Why? It’s still early,” Mary says. Her voice quivers a bit, giving away her emotion, making her sound needy.

“I’ve got an early flight,” Trevor says. “I can’t miss it.”

Trevor picks Mary’s clothes up off the floor and tosses them on the bed next to her. She stares at them blankly. “Get dressed,” he says.

“Why are you being like this?” Mary asks, hurt.

“Like what? I’ve gotta get up early,” says Trevor.

“So? Why can’t I stay? We can just sleep, you know.”

“Sure we can,” says Trevor with a chuckle.

“We can!” Mary cries defiantly. “It’s not just about sex.”

“It isn’t?” Trevor says, mock-surprised.

“Of course not,” says Mary, either oblivious or indifferent to Trevor’s mockery. “At least, it doesn’t have to be.”

“Yes, it does,” Trevor says quietly.

Mary fights back tears. “Why?” she says weakly, almost inaudibly.

“Because that’s how I want it.”

Mary doesn’t say another word. She slowly yet purposefully dresses, not bothering to examine herself in the mirror. She knows she looks like shit—her hair mussed and her makeup a mess. She doesn’t care. She just wants to get out of the room, get away from Trevor before she loses her composure and falls apart. She doesn’t want him to see her cry.

“I’ll walk you to your car,” he tells her, as if it makes him a gentleman.

The parking lot is empty as the pair walk to Mary’s dark blue Honda Civic. Mary unlocks her door and Trevor holds it open for her. “Call me when you get back to Oakdale?” she asks.

“You know I can’t do that,” he says, looking away from her hopeful eyes.

“Why not? Because of Jessica? I thought you guys were broken up?”

“We are,” Trevor responds. “Sort of. I don’t know. It’s complicated.”

“Apparently not so complicated that you couldn’t fuck me tonight,” Mary snaps. The tears well up in the corners of her eyes, but she no longer feels hurt. She feels angry. “So, what? You’re just using me for a little fling while you’re out of town, until you can patch things up with Jessica? Is that it?”

She flings her words at him with as much vindictiveness as possible. She wants them to sting, to hurt, but he’s Teflon. Her words slide right off of him. He just doesn’t care. “Yeah, that’s pretty much it,” he says calmly.

“Fuck you, Trevor,” Mary says.

“Look, you knew the score,” he retorts. “You knew how this works, how this always works! I don’t recall you asking too many questions about Jessica tonight either!”

“I hate you,” she says, and the first tear falls down her face. Her anger ebbs. She’s beaten. She slumps down into the driver’s seat, absently fumbling her keys into the ignition.

“Aw, you don’t mean that,” Trevor says with that cocksure grin of his. Mary slams the door of her car shut and starts the motor. “I’ll call you next time I’m in town!” he shouts through the glass as she stares steely forward.

He laughs as she pulls away.

More tears follow as Mary navigates the somewhat unfamiliar streets trying to get back to the 405 freeway. She wipes her face, trying not to sob but failing, and pulls her cell phone from her purse. Janet is number 1 on her speed dial.

“Janet? It’s Mary? Can I come over?”

********

It’s three hours later and Mary and Janet polish off their second bottle of wine. The candles that Janet lit have melted down to almost nothing, and the room grows dimmer by the second. The girls hardly notice.

“That son of a bitch,” Mary says for the upteenth time. It’s one of the kinder epithets she’s used for Trevor this evening. “What does he even see in that ugly bitch?”

Janet rolls her eyes, partly because of Mary’s juvenile lashing out at Jessica and partly because they’ve covered this territory already tonight. Twice. “I don’t know,” Janet says half-heartedly. “I guess they just ‘get’ each other.” She sets her wine glass down on the coffee table and stretches out on the couch.

“They deserve each other,” Mary says, quaffing the last of the wine from her glass and wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “I hate them. I hate them both.”

“Good, honey. That’s good. Just let it all out.”

“I’m too good for him anyway,” Mary continues. “He never deserved me then and he sure as hell doesn’t deserve him now. I mean, he’s not even all that good-looking.”

“You’re way hotter than he is,” Janet reassures.

“I am, right?” Mary says. “I’m way hotter. I could totally do better. Like, I could totally get a way hotter guy than Trevor.”

“Totally,” Janet says, only subtly mocking her.

“But I think I’m done with guys for a while,” Mary says. “Guys suck. It’s always the same thing. They’re always all about themselves, and they don’t give a shit about trampling all over your feelings to get what they want.”

“You’re preaching to the choir, sister,” Janet chimes.

“Maybe I should just go gay, like you,” says Mary. Janet can’t suppress a laugh. “What? Why not? You don’t think I could be a lesbian?”

Maybe it’s the liquor, but Janet can’t stop laughing at this idea. “No. I don’t. At all.”

“I could so be a lesbian,” Mary says. “Why not?”

“Well, first of all, I highly doubt you’d be able to go down on a woman.”

Mary hesitates. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s not all that bad. I’ve never tried it.”

“Have you ever even kissed a woman?” Janet asks.

“Sure I have,” Mary answers. “Plenty of times.”

“Bullshit.”

“No, really! I have!” Mary defends herself.

“When?”

“In college,” Mary answers. “I did a little experimenting.”

“Oh, give me a break,” Janet says. “At best you’ve given some girl a little peck kiss just to get some attention from the guys. You’ve never really kissed a girl.”

Janet waits for Mary’s retort but none comes. She opens her eyes to look at Mary, only to find her right above her. Mary plants a kiss full on Janet’s lips, hard and firm. Janet’s startled, taken aback, and her lips don’t respond—but only for a second. Then her lips part, and Mary’s tongue slides between them. Their tongues touch, their lips press harder together. Janet’s hand finds the back of Mary’s head and her fingers wrap around Mary’s hair, holding her firmly in place.

The kiss lasts only a few seconds, but it feels like a lifetime. When they part, the girls look at each other silently. Janet stares at Mary in shock, while Mary—drunk on wine and passion—smiles back crazily. “See?” she says. Mary moves in again, but Janet gets up. Mary just giggles. “What? You’re gonna play hard to get now?”

“Mary, you’re drunk,” Janet says.

“So are you.”

“True. But not so much that I don’t know how bad an idea this is.”

“Why?” Mary says in that same needy voice that she used with Trevor.

“Because I’m your friend and you’re particularly vulnerable right now,” Janet replies.

Mary says nothing. She feels dizzy from the wine, and her mind clouds. It’s obvious to Janet that Mary’s completely drunk and doesn’t know what she’s doing. Janet walks to the closet, pulling out the spare blanket. Mary has already curled up into a ball on the couch; Janet covers her with the blanket. Mary’s out like a light within minutes.

Janet sits in the chair opposite the couch staring at the sleeping Mary. She keeps going over the kiss in her head. It excited her. She liked it. She wonders what would’ve happened if she hadn’t stopped it. Would they have had sex? Janet’s always wondered what it’d be like to sleep with Mary. Mary’s very attractive—a natural dark-haired beauty with a toned, tanned, athletic body due to her rock climbing and hiking and biking and all her other outdoor activities. She can’t lie to herself—Mary turns her on. It’d be nice to kiss her again, to curl up with her under that blanket. But Mary’s drunk, and friends don’t take advantage of each other when they’re drunk.

Janet turns out the living room light and goes into her bedroom. She crawls into her bed, which feels colder than normal this evening. She turns off the lamp by her bed, blotting out the light and the thoughts of a torrid taboo affair with a dear friend.

In the morning, everything will be normal.

Chapter 7: Kissable

“How ‘bout the Beatles?”

Dylan lies on his futon, the phone cradled in his neck. The television plays some reality show, but the volume is turned down and Dylan ignores it. The room is dark, save for the glow of the TV. A beer rests on the nightstand next to Dylan, and he occasionally sips from the bottle. He’s been sipping the same bottle during his entire conversation, a little over an hour.

“I like the Beatles,” Rochelle replies on the other end of the line. “My folks used to listen to them when I was a kid, and I guess that I gained an appreciation through them. I think I like their older stuff more, though. That White Album stuff is kinda weird to me.” Rochelle lies under the covers in her bed, holding the phone to her ear. Her cat Ajax sleeps on the pillow beside her, a loud, low purr emanating from his furry body. Rochelle’s wearing glasses, a forgotten novel beside her.

“I like The White Album,” Dylan says. “It’s so experimental. Not all the songs are great, but it’s a band at the top of their game willing to take some risks.”

“Like U2 with that ‘Discotheque” stuff,” Rochelle says. “I couldn’t really get into it, but I thought it was cool that they were trying something different.”

“Exactly!” Dylan says, impressed by Rochelle’s analogy. “I actually think that U2 is the Beatles for our generation. They might be the most important rock band of our era.”

Rochelle laughs, “Even more important than Angry Buddha?”

Dylan laughs too. “As much as it pains me to admit it, yes.”

“You really love music, don’t you? I mean, I love music, but music is your life.”

“Yeah, it’s a really important part of who I am,” Dylan says. “But it’s not the only part.”

“So what other parts are there?” Rochelle inquires playfully.

“Well,” says Dylan, playing along, “I’m a complicated man. Like Shaft.”

“So no one understands you but your woman?”

“We’ll see,” Dylan says, smiling to himself.

“So let me ask you a question,” Rochelle starts.

“Uh-oh. This sounds serious,” Dylan responds. “Hit me.”

“Are you a waiter?” Rochelle asks. Her face blushes a bit.

Dylan laughs. “Ah, I see. Struggling musician in LA. I understand. No, I’m not a waiter.” Rochelle audibly breathes a sigh of relief. “I’m a busboy.” Dylan immediately starts cracking up, but even still for a second Rochelle believes him.

“Funny,” she says.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” says Dylan, choking back more laughter, even though Rochelle is chuckling now too. “No, I’m not a waiter or a busboy. Actually, I don’t have a quote-unquote real job right now. I got a rather large monetary settlement in a lawsuit a while back, and that’s enough to pay the bills, provided I don’t get too extravagant.”

“Really?” Rochelle asks, eyebrows raised. “What happened?”

“I can’t really talk about it,” Dylan answers. “There was a confidentiality agreement in the settlement agreement.”

“Oh, yeah, of course,” Rochelle says.

“It’s really not as intriguing as I’m making it sound,” Dylan says apologetically.

“It’s okay. I understand.”

“Right—you work at a law firm. You know all about that stuff,” Dylan says. “How do you like it?”

“What? The law firm? It’s a job,” Rochelle replies. “I was really passionate about the law once, but I’ve really lost my taste for it.”

“How come?”

“WhenI first went to law school, I was full of ideals and hopes. I thought I was going to make a difference, do something important. But everyone there was so caught up with the power, the prestige, the money. Everyone was competing, trying to beat out the other guy so they could get the better job, the more high-profile position. It was like being in high school all over again.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, in high school they always tell you to study hard and get good grades, so you can go to a good college. Then once you actually get to a good college, they start telling you that you have to work hard so that you can get into a good graduate program. So when you get to law school, and you think you’ve finally made it, then they’re telling you you have to study hard so that you can get a job with a good firm. And when you get to that firm, you’ll wind up working your ass off trying to make partner. What’s the point?”

“I believe that’s what they call the rat race,” Dylan says.

“Well, I want out of the race,” Rochelle responds. “It’s all just so ridiculous. The law as a profession is a joke. It’s a bunch of egoists arguing with each other because they get paid to do it. It would all be so much simpler if people could just check their egos at the door and talk out their problems. Compromise. Work things out. Lawyers are just a waste of time and money.”

“Wow,” Dylan says. “Sounds like you really hate your job.”

“Everybody hates their job,” Rochelle says.

“I don’t hate my job.”

“You don’t have a job,” says Rochelle. “You have a settlement.”

Dylan laughs. “All right, all right.”

“Seriously, though,” she continues, “If I could do what you do and make a living at it, I’d be so much happier.”

“What’s that? Make music?” Dylan asks.

“No. God no. I’m so musically challenged. No, I just mean something creative, you know? I’d like to be creating something; I’d like to be doing something that uses my imagination. Am I making any sense?”

“Completely. I know exactly what you’re talking about. It’s like, I don’t even really care if the band makes it, if we ever get a record deal or make money. I just wanna create something cool, y’know? Something that moves people, something that people really dig. I’d love to have a timeless album, a masterpiece—something like Sgt. Pepper's. I’d like to create something that stands the test of time, something that my grandkids’ kids would admire.”

“That’s really cool,” Rochelle says, a little awed.

“Well, it’s a cool idea,” Dylan responds. “So far I haven’t even come close. Don’t get me wrong—Angry Buddha’s got some good stuff, some good songs. But we still fall short from where I want us to be.”

“I’m sure you’ll get there,” Rochelle says sweetly. Dylan can’t help but smile. “So when am I gonna hear some Angry Buddha music?”

Dylan springs to his feet. “How ‘bout I play you some right now?”

“Okay!” Rochelle laughs.

Dylan walks over to his stereo, a tower of cds standing next to it. He quickly pulls out a disc and pops it into the player. A few soft guitar chords echo out over the speakers. Dylan turns up the volume dial and holds the phone closer to the stereo. “Can you hear it?” he asks.

“Um-hmm,” Rochelle responds. The guitar chords grow louder and faster, the song swiftly becoming more up-tempo. Then Dylan’s voice pipes in above the music, his voice deep yet lilting, sometimes hitting a weak falsetto that, to be honest, isn’t really that good. Still, the emotion in his voice moves Rochelle. Maybe it’s her crush on him, but she likes his voice.

The Dylan on the stereo sings, “I’d love to leave you but you’re so damn kissable.” It’s the chorus to the song, which Rochelle presumes is called “Kissable.” It’s a very catchy song, kind of pop rock rather than true alt-rock. Rochelle likes it.

The song finishes and the real Dylan gets back on the line. “So…what’d you think?”

Rochelle says, “I love it. I thought it was very catchy. You have a very nice voice.”

“Thanks,” Dylan says. “The song’s called ‘Kissable.’”

“So I gathered.”

“It’s one of my favourites,” Dylan continues. “It’s a little more mainstream than some of our other stuff, but it’s usually the song that most people will respond to.”

“It does seem a little more pop rock,” Rochelle says. “But you’re right. I can see why people would find it very accessible. It sounds like something you’d hear on Top 40 radio.”

“I’m gonna take that as a compliment,” Dylan says, smiling.

“Oh, it’s a compliment,” Rochelle says quickly. “I really liked the song. What inspired the lyrics?”

“That would be telling,” Dylan says teasingly.

“Sounds like an interesting story,” Rochelle replies. “You realize that now I have to know.”

“You’ll never get it out of me!” Dylan calls out in a mock-Cagney voice.

Rochelle laughs. “Well, I don’t know… I can be quite kissable.”

“So I’ve gathered,” Dylan says. There’s a noticeable click on the line. “Is that your call waiting?” he asks.

“Yeah,” replies Rochelle.

“Do you have to take the call?”

“No,” says Rochelle without hesitation. “Play me another song.”

Chapter 6: Waiting By The Phone

Five years ago, Rochelle Galecki failed the bar exam. After three difficult years of law school, years where Rochelle studied harder than she’d ever studied before, after graduating with her law degree, she failed the one test standing in the way of her practicing law. She felt humiliated at the time. All her friends from school had passed; she was the only one she knew who had failed.

The bar exam failure took a lot out of Rochelle. She became a little withdrawn. Rochelle had always been a bit of a homebody, a bookworm, someone more comfortable with staying in than going out. But after the bar, Rochelle just fell off the face of the earth. She stopped calling friends, she stopped going out. She sank into a little hole of depression, too embarrassed to spend time with people who knew she had failed.

This dark period of Rochelle’s life, this antisocial hibernation, wreaked havoc on her love life. She had recently broken up with a long-term boyfriend before the test, and had been having trouble meeting somebody new. Once she stopped going out, it became impossible to meet people. Her dating life—her social life in general—withered away. She became more and more introverted.

She planned on retaking the test, getting back on the horse and getting her life back on track. However, during her self-imposed exile she started reading voraciously. Always an avid reader, Rochelle was burning through books at an amazing pace. She realized that this was what she really wanted to do. She wanted to write. She didn’t know if it would be books, or plays, or scripts, or whatever—she just knew she wanted to create something. She needed to follow her heart and do something creative.

Suddenly the law didn’t seem like such an alluring vocation. Many of her law school friends had gone on to practice law, and not one of them seemed happy. More importantly, most of them were so consumed with work that they didn’t have much time for anything else in their lives. They certainly didn’t have time to write.

So Rochelle decided not to retake the bar exam. Instead, she would focus on being a writer. Of course, this wouldn’t pay the bills, so Rochelle fell back on her law degree, taking a job as a paralegal in a midsize law firm in Century City. She was eminently qualified for the job—overqualified, actually—and it didn’t pay her as much as she could make doing something else, but it paid the bills and it gave her enough free time to do what she wanted.

She began with journals. It seemed the easiest way to get her hands dirty. They always say to write what you know, so a journal seemed like the logical first step. The words came easy. Writing about yourself, like talking about yourself, generally doesn’t take much effort. However, Rochelle found it hard to be honest in her journals. She didn’t like writing down her negative thoughts, her negative feelings, the negative things that would happen. As a result, the journals came off like a sugar-coated version of her life story.

She started writing fiction instead—short stories at first, then an ambitious novel attempt. She’s still working on that novel; it’s been stuck in limbo for quite some time now. Recently, a friend had convinced her to try blogging—the Internet version of a journal. She revisited the notion of writing about her own life, this time for anyone to see. Again, she found it hard to write about the truly personal, difficult things. Still, she found the public forum an interesting, stimulating, and cathartic experience. The Internet opened up a whole new world of possibilities for her. She could now self-publish. Her writing could be out there for anyone to see.

While creatively Rochelle began to flourish, socially she remained scarred. She reconnected with her friends, began going out again, but she now had an awkwardness about her, and uncomfortable shyness brought on by too much time alone. She had forgotten how to interact with people—particularly strangers. Rochelle had never been the life of the party; she was never the most outgoing person. But she had never before been described as shy. She was quieter than she used to be. She lacked self-confidence, a flaw that didn’t exist before she’d failed the bar exam. So while she had friends, she still had trouble finding a boyfriend. She was attractive enough to get attention, but her shy aloofness usually prevented her from connecting with a man.

Janet convinced her to try the Internet dating thing. They signed up for Match.com, figuring they’d give an online dating service a chance to accomplish what they’d been unable to do themselves—find a compatible companion.

Rochelle’s initial response from Match.com was quite positive. Within days she had many emails from potential suitors. The problem was that Rochelle didn’t find a single one of them even remotely interesting. She refused to simply settle for anyone. She might be having trouble finding a man, but she didn’t feel desperate. She had gotten used to following her heart in other matters, and she would in this one as well. She wanted to be excited by a man, to be really moved by what he had to say. She was holding out for a dream guy.

Janet and Mary argued with her for weeks over her standoffish policy. They impressed upon her that her ideals were unreasonable. Janet had said, “Dating is like shoe shopping. You don’t just go into the store, see a pair of shoes, know they’re perfect, buy them and leave. No. You look around a little bit. You try a few pairs on, see how they fit, see how they look. You give each pair that looks interesting a chance. Then you make a decision on whether or not to buy. It’s the same way with dating. You go on dates with people that seem to have potential, give them a chance to impress you. You’re not gonna know if they’re worth keeping until you try them on and see how they fit.”

The analogy made sense to Rochelle, and not just because she loved shoes. Being principled, with high standards and expectations, had its merits…but it sure was lonely. She could keep holding out for Mr. Right, or she could give Mr. Not Bad a chance. Mr. Right might not even really exist, but Mr. Not Bad was attractive, considerate, funny. Mr. Not Bad listened to you when you talked and took an active interest in your life. Mr. Not Bad looked in your eyes without seeming lecherous, and he paid for dinner without making you feel like you owed him something. Mr. Not Bad always held the door open and called you the next day.

Rochelle thinks Dylan’s not bad, except…except he hasn’t called.

********

The call comes in at 7:30. A half-undressed Janet answers her phone; Rochelle is on the other line.

“What are you doing?” Rochelle asks.

Janet notices the despondent tone in Rochelle’s voice. “I just got back from yoga. I was about to hop in the shower, but then you called.”

“Sorry. I can let you go…” Rochelle says.

“No, it’s okay. What’s up?” Janet asks.

“Nothing. It’s…it’s nothing,” Rochelle says unconvincingly.

“Well, it’s obviously something.”

“No, it’s lame. I know it’s lame,” Rochelle says.

“Just tell me,” Janet says with a little sigh.

“Well…Dylan hasn’t called,” Rochelle says reluctantly.

“Okay,” Janet says, waiting for more. More doesn’t come. “Is that all?”

“Yes,” Rochelle says weakly, a tinge of embarrassment in her voice.

“Rochelle, it’s 7:30,” Janet says in a measured voice. “It hasn’t even been twenty-four hours yet.”

“I know. I know,” Rochelle replies. “I know it’s stupid. It’s just…I really thought he’d call today. He seemed like the kind of guy who would call right away.”

“Most guys don’t do that,” Janet says. “You know that. It’s the Swingers mentality, remember? Two-day minimum to call a girl back. Every guy in L.A. does this ever since that movie came out.”

“I know,” Rochelle says. “I just thought that Dylan was different from that. He seemed like he had a different attitude about things.”

“Like what?” Janet asks. “What made him seem so different?”

“I don’t know,” Rochelle replies. “It was just they way he talked to me, I guess. The way he’d listen, pay attention to what I’d say. He just seemed like he was into me.”

“You don’t know that he’s not into you,’ Janet says. “Maybe he’ll call.”

“Yeah, I know. But I wanted him to be excited to call me. I wanted him to not be able to wait to talk to me again. Is that too much to ask for?”

“Apparently, these days it is,” says Janet. “Sad, I know. It’s sad that we settle for such mediocrity. Hell, I’m happy if I get a call back at all.”

Rochelle manages a soft chuckle. She was already starting to feel a little better. Janet had a way of putting things into perspective for her. Sure, Rochelle hadn’t gotten a call back, but Janet hadn’t even been on a real date in quite a while.

“I’m sure he’ll call,” Janet says reassuringly. “Just give it a day. Chances are you’re getting all worked up over nothing.”

“You’re probably right,” Rochelle says. “Still, I wish he’d called today. I’d feel better, just having that reassurance, you know?”

“I know, honey,” Janet says.

“You think I’m a total dork right now, don’t you?”

“Not a total dork,” Janet responds.

“God, why am I sketching so much?” Rochelle cries out. “Why can’t I just be calm and rational like a normal girl?”

“Ro, you are acting like a normal girl.”

Rochelle laughs. “Thanks for letting me freak out on you.”

“That’s what friends are for,” Janet says. “Look, you’re not a dork. You just really like the guy. It’s okay. That’s cool. Actually, that’s great. I mean, look at the bright side: when’s the last time you felt that strongly about any guy?”

“Probably Ethan,” Rochelle says.

“Right. And Ethan was, like, five or six years ago. I’d say this is progress, girl.”

“How come progress has to feel so neurotic and shitty?”

“For the same reason we have periods,” Janet says. “Eve ate that apple and God’s been punishing us ever since. Listen, why don’t you make yourself a nice cup of tea, curl up with a good book, forget about Dylan for a couple of hours, and get a good night’s sleep?”

“All right, all right. I’ll shut up now,” Rochelle says playfully. “Go take that shower. You stink. I can smell you over the phone.”

“Bitch,” Janet says.

“Thanks for listening,” says Rochelle.

“Hey, you want me to call you later?” Janet asks.

“Nah. I’ll just get all excited thinking it’s Dylan. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Okay. Goodnight, then,” Janet says.

“Bye.”

********

It’s 11:00. Rochelle sits curled up in her bed, sipping Chamomile tea and paging through a Jennifer Crusie novel. Her phone rings, and she reaches over to the nightstand and answers it without thought, a reflex. Dylan’s voice shocks her back into focus.

“Hello, Rochelle?”

“Hi!” she says, excited.

“It’s Dylan,” he says.

“Yeah, I know,” Rochelle replies. You can almost hear her smile.

“Sorry I’m calling so late. I meant to call earlier, but I got caught up with band practice and I had to give my friend a ride, and then we got caught up having dinner with my band mate’s parents and it was this disgusting casserole…”

Rochelle chuckles as Dylan goes on with his wacky tale of misadventure. He’s not bad, she thinks. Not bad at all.

Chapter 5: Steppin' Out

Dylan McDonald lives in a studio apartment in Van Nuys, California. It’s not the nicest place to live, but the rent is cheap and the space has a good view of the hills. Natural light fills the small, sparsely furnished apartment, illuminating Dylan’s futon bed, small television, bookshelf, and what he likes to call his studio. The studio is simply a keyboard and a couple of guitars set in the corner of the room, along with a mic and some other recording equipment.

Dylan wakes up before the alarm. He lies in bed for a few minutes, basking in the warmth of the sunlight, not quite wanting to leave the comfort of the bed. His mind wanders, vaguely holding on to the remnants of a dream, remembering his date with Rochelle the night before, mulling over lyrics to a new song he’s been working on. After a while, he gets up and walks to the kitchen area. The kitchen is small, but has a full-size fridge and stove. Dylan opens the fridge, pulling out a bottle of cranberry juice and taking a drink from the bottle. He makes a sour face as he gulps down a swallow of the semi-bitter juice. He finds that cranberry juice helps him to wake up, though it tends to leave a bad aftertaste in his mouth in the morning—even after brushing his teeth.

Speaking of which, Dylan walks to the bathroom and begins his morning routine. It’s only a quarter to ten—he’s running early. Still, there’s no reason he can’t get a jump on the day. Perhaps he’ll give Rochelle a call before band practice.

At that moment, the phone rings, almost as if Dylan had sent out a telepathic signal to it. He spits out his toothpaste and walks over to the phone, answering it on the third ring. He half-expects it to be Rochelle, and for a brief moment he amusingly entertains the notion that he’s psychic. Then Dana’s voice greets him on the other end of the line, and any thoughts of psychic powers fade like the dream he woke from this morning.

********

She wakes up hung over. It’d been another shitty Saturday night. Johnny got drunk again, and made an ass of himself in front of their friends. This was not an uncommon event; in fact, it happened way too often. It was beginning to get old, and tiresome. Dana had just about had her fill.

Dana Wallace used to be much more together than this. She wasn’t the brightest or richest or luckiest person, but she did okay for herself. She was happy. She’d play her drums with different bands, she’d work—never making a lot of money, but always managing to pay the bills. She had friends that she’d see, and they’d have fun and do things together.

Then she married Johnny, and things changed.

Dana knows enough to know that all married couples have strife. Still, it seemed like things were just getting worse and worse. In the beginning, Johnny seemed perfect. He was handsome, charming, had a little bit of money. He had that bad boy thing going for him, and Dana had always enjoyed someone who seemed a little dangerous. Maybe that was the problem. She acknowledged that her life seemed cliché, like something you’d see on the Lifetime Television for Women Channel. But it was her life.

She drank a lot more lately. She knew it was bad, but it helped numb her, even her out. She figured it was cheaper and easier than getting on anti-depressants. Still, on mornings like this morning, she wishes she’d just stop drinking. She wishes a lot of things.

Dana pops an aspirin and washes her face. Johnny must still be downstairs on the couch. She left him there last night, passed out, a shit-faced wreck. Still pissed off about last night, she hops in the shower hoping she can get out of the house before he comes to.

Band practice is at 11:00, so she’s running early. Maybe she’ll stop and have some breakfast somewhere. She can’t remember the last time she went out to breakfast. Maybe she’ll call the band and see if they want to join her.

Dana tips out the front door without rousing Johnny. She gets into her yellow Mazda Miata and hops on the 118 freeway, which will take her to the 405, which will take her to Santa Monica. Band practice is being held in Santa Monica today to accommodate the bass player, Alex, who lives out there and recently broke his ankle. As a result, he has trouble driving and can’t make it out to the Valley where the band normally rehearses.

Dana calls Dylan on her cell phone, thinking that if he wants to go to breakfast with her she can pick him up on the way to Santa Monica and they can eat somewhere out there.

Dylan answers, “Hello?”

“Good, you’re already awake,” Dana says.

“What, did you think I was gonna oversleep or something? It’s not even ten yet.”

“No, nothing like that,” Dana replies. “I was running early, so I thought I’d see if you wanted to grab some breakfast. I can pick you up.”

“Thanks, but I’ll pass,” Dylan says. “I’ve got a couple of calls to make before I leave for practice. Why don’t you call Briggs?”

“I was gonna call him too, but if you’re not going I don’t want to just go with him. He’s a pain in the ass,” Dana says.

“Yeah, he’s a bit much,” Dylan agrees. “But I’m sure Alex will go too.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” Dana responds. “He’s been complaining a lot about his ankle, and how hard it is for him to get around. I don’t think he wants to go anywhere unless he has to. We’re lucky he’s showing up for rehearsal.”

Dylan chuckles. “All right. Guess you’re on your own then.” Dylan’s call waiting beeps. “Oh, that’s my other line. I’d better take it—I’ll see you in a little while.”

“Okay, bye,” Dana says and hangs up.

Dylan clicks over to the other line. Briggs speaks in a slow, surfer-like parlance. “Dude, what’s up?”

“Hey, Briggs. You’re not bailing on rehearsal, are you?” Dylan asks.

“Nah, man, nah. But listen: do you think you could come over? My car’s all fucked up right now…” Briggs says.

“What’s wrong with your car?” Dylan asks.

“It’s fucked, man. It won’t work. Won’t start. Must be the battery, or something. Do you think you could help me?”

“I don’t know anything about cars, man,” Dylan says.

“Nah, I know. I know,” Briggs says. “I need a ride to band practice, dude. I’ll get the car fixed later.”

“Oh, you just need a ride?”

“Yeah, can you give me a ride? I really don’t want to miss practice—I’ve got this badass riff I was working on yesterday…you’re totally gonna dig it, man.”

“Yeah, all right,” Dylan says. “Lemme just jump in the shower really quick and then I’ll be right over.”

“Cool, dude—you’re the best,” Briggs says and then clicks off.

Dylan hangs up the phone. Guess calling Rochelle will have to wait.

********

Dana stops at a diner in Santa Monica near Alex’s parents’ house. They’re letting the band use their garage for rehearsal today while they go to church. The house is only about a block away, so Dana figures she has time to order an omelet.

She takes a seat at the counter and looks at the menu. There’s a mild crowd for Sunday brunch—guess everyone’s at church. There’s an old guy at the counter wearing a flannel shirt, three girls at a booth behind Dana talking excitedly, and a Korean couple at one of the tables in the corner. The waitress comes and takes Dana’s order and her food comes right away. This is good—Dana had worried the place might be busy and she didn’t want to be late, but she couldn’t bear the thought of getting a hash brown and sausage mcmuffin at McDonald’s.

Dana eats her omelet quickly—she’s already starting to feel better. The food and coffee have helped immensely to soothe her aching head. Now that she has some food in her, she can focus on the new song she’s been thinking about. It’s actually an old song that the band used to play, but she’s thought of a way to change the arrangement to make it more of a ballad. She wishes Dylan had come along—she’d really like to talk to him about the song.

She gets up after leaving money on the counter for her bill and heads for the restroom. She ran out in such a hurry this morning that she only has minimal makeup done. She takes out her compact and starts touching up her face, leaning over the sink in the bathroom so that she can see better in the mirror.

The door opens. In walks a slender, attractive brunette. She’s about Dana’s age, maybe a bit older. She’s one of the girls from the booth Dana sat by. She walks into the stall and closes the door.

Dana switches to mascara, opening her eye wide and stroking her eyelashes with the little brush. The woman comes out of the stall and walks to the sink next to Dana to wash her hands. She looks over at Dana, watching her do her makeup. “It’s a little early for a hot date, don’t you think?” she says.

Dana laughs. “No date. Just band practice.”

“Band practice? What do you play?” the girl asks, turning to look at Dana.

“I play drums,” Dana replies, putting away her mascara.

“What kind of music?”

“Rock n’ roll. Well, modern rock, really,” Dana answers.

“What’s the band’s name? Would I have heard of them?”

Dana smiles. “Doubtful—we haven’t gotten big yet. The band’s called Angry Buddha.”

“Interesting name,” the girl says.

“Yeah, well, I didn’t name us,” Dana says. “Though I’m not sure I could’ve come up with something better. I’d have probably picked something like The Bitches.”

The girl laughs, maybe a bit harder than the joke warrants. “Is it all all-girl group?” she asks.

“No, all boys—plus me,” Dana says. “Though I’m kinda like one of the boys, really.”

“Really,” the girl says, staring at Dana.

“So what do you do?” Dana asks, packing up her things and putting them in her purse.

“Oh, I teach yoga,” the girl says.

“That’s cool,” says Dana.

“Yeah, I love it. Do you do yoga? You look pretty fit,” the girl says.

“No, I’ve never tried it, but I’ve always been interested in checking it out.”

“Well, I work at Westside Fitness Center,” says the girl. “You should come by sometime and check out a class.”

“I don’t actually live out here,” Dana responds. “I live in Simi. I’m just out here for band practice.”

“Oh,” says the girl, sounding dejected. But then she quickly rebounds, “Well, I teach a class this evening. Maybe if you’re still around you could come by.”

“We’ll see,” says Dana. She runs her left hand through her hair, pushing her hair behind her ear, and she notices the girl’s eyes lock onto her wedding ring.

“Sure,” says the girl, a look of realization coming over her face. “Maybe I’ll see you later.”

“Yeah, maybe,” Dana says. She grabs her purse and heads for the bathroom door. “It was nice meeting you.”

“Yeah, you too,” the girl says. She stands there while Dana exits.

********

Dylan and Briggs show up late to practice, but it’s only a couple of minutes so nobody voices any objections. When they arrive, Alex is tuning his bass and Dana sits on a stool smoking a cigarette.

“What’s up, guys?” Dylan says, carrying a guitar up to the garage. Briggs follows behind him, also carrying a guitar and an amp.

“Dana was just telling me about getting hit on in the bathroom at Norm’s,” Alex says.

“Guy or girl?” Dylan asks.
“Girl,” Dana responds.

“Guess it’d be kinda weird if it were a guy, considering you were in the bathroom,” Alex says.

“Was she hot?” Briggs asks.

“Yeah, kinda,” says Dana.

“Are you gonna go for it?” Briggs asks again.

“You really love this stuff, don’t you?” Dylan says to Briggs.

“What stuff?” Briggs responds.

“Lesbian stuff.”

“Dude, who wouldn’t? I mean, it’s simple math, man. What’s better than a hot chick? Two hot chicks.”

“On behalf of heterosexual males everywhere, I apologize,” Dylan says to Dana.

Dana laughs. “Oh please, it’s Briggs. God should be the one apologizing.” The whole band laughs except for Briggs, who doesn’t seem to get the joke but at least recognizes that it’s at his expense. “Anyways,” Dana continues, “I think I’ve got more than enough on my plate already, what with Johnny and Kerry.”

“Kerry? I thought you stopped seeing her,” Dylan says.

Dana takes a long drag off her cigarette. “I stopped smoking, too.” She blows out a puff of smoke and smiles.

“Hey guys,” Alex says. “My parents wanted to invite you to stay for dinner tonight. My mom’s making her chicken casserole tonight—it’s really good.”

“You must be loving this home cooking,” Dana says.

“How long are you gonna be staying here?” Dylan asks.

“Only a couple more days,” Alex responds. “I’m starting to be able to get around better now. I should be able to walk the steps at my apartment.”

“Doesn’t hurt to have someone do your laundry for a little while though, does it?” Dana says.

Alex laughs. “So, what do you think? You guys wanna stay for dinner? We can go out and get some beers afterwards.”

“Yeah, sounds good,” Dylan says.

Chapter 4: Sunday Dish

Mary’s a third of the way through her cinnamon bagel with cream cheese when she asks the question: “So…how was your date?”

Mary, Rochelle, and Janet sit at a booth at Norm’s, having an early brunch. Rochelle looks up from her omelet at Mary’s question, while Janet smiles over her black coffee.

“It was…nice,” Rochelle responds.

“Nice? That’s it?” Mary asks again.

“It was very nice,” Rochelle says. “It was great. He was great.”

“Do tell,” Mary says.

“Details,” demands Janet.

The girls lean in closer as Rochelle begins her tale. “Well, we were at the Coffee Bean for a couple of hours, just talking, you know? Like, how you can just wind up chatting forever and not notice how much time has passed?”

“God, I love that,” Mary says.

“The conversation flowed so easily for us—there were no awkward pauses, no uncomfortable silences. It felt like we’d known each other a long time.”

“That’s so cool,” Mary says.

“So after a while, we got hungry, so we went to this little Italian place down by the pier.”

“Oh! I think I know that place! It’s called…” Mary says excitedly.

Rochelle replies, “I don’t remember the name. It had red checkered tablecloths…”

“Yeah! That’s it! Really good food,” Mary says.

“Yeah, the food was great, and it came really quickly. We were, like, starving, ‘cause we totally scarfed down our food. But it was cool, because I didn’t really want to stay in the restaurant all that long. We wound up going for a walk on the pier, watching the sunset.”

“How romantic,” Mary says, obviously wrapped up in the story.

“How cliché,” Janet adds (less wrapped up).

“Bitter much?” Mary asks.

“Still not bitter enough to sleep with you,” Janet cuts.

“Oh, you wish I’d switch teams,” Mary shoots back.

“Only so it’d stop you bitching about your shitty boyfriends,” Janet says.

“I may have had some shitty dates, but it sounds like Ro’s date went pretty well,” Mary says, getting back on point.

“I don’t know about that,” Janet says. “It sounds kinda formulaic, you know? Kinda…planned. He probably takes all his dates out there.”

“Hey!” Rochelle protests, a bit offended. She sets down her fork, ignoring her half-eaten omelet.

“Don’t listen to her,” Mary says. “She’s just a bitter old lesbian who hasn’t gotten any in a while.”

“Hey, I’m not old!” Janet protests.

“It was a really romantic moment,” Rochelle proclaims, almost plaintively.

“Well, I’m sorry, It’s just not all that original,” Janet says, starting to chuckle. At this point it becomes obvious that Janet is merely trying to get under Rochelle’s skin, and has so far done a decent job of it. “It sounds like something out of a romance novel. Next you’ll tell me that he ripped open your bodice as you felt his restless man-root up against you…”

Rochelle says, “No, nothing like that happened. We kissed—that’s all. He was a perfect gentleman. He walked me to my door, we kissed goodnight, he said he’d call me, and then I went in-ALONE.”

The girls return to their brunch, each focused for the moment on their meals (or, in Janet’s case, on her coffee). The calm lasts for only a moment; Rochelle’s dying to keep talking and Mary’s eager to prompt her.

“So how was the kiss?” Mary asks.

“He’s a great kisser. The kiss at my door was even better than the one on the pier…”

“Wait,” Mary says. “There were two kisses?”

“Actually, all told, there were…” Rochelle looks off into space, counting in her head. “…Seven. Or eight. Maybe.”

“Eight? All of them good?” Mary asks, completely engrossed.

“Perfect,” Rochelle responds blissfully. “He has such soft lips, and he’s gentle. He’s got a bit of a 5 o’clock shadow, so his face is just the tiniest bit prickly…”

“Gross,” Janet says blandly.

“Hey, not all of us are man-haters,” Mary says.

“I don’t hate men,” Janet replies. “I just typically find them…repugnant. Don’t blame me that they’re gross—that’s God's fault.”

“God, you can be such a dyke sometimes,” Mary says dismissively.

“Better a dyke than a hag,” Janet coos mockingly.

“Guys, I’m telling a story here,” Rochelle interrupts.

“Sorry, go ahead,” Janet says.

Janet and Mary both refocus on Rochelle. She stars back at them for a moment, captivating their full attention. Then, rather unimpressively, she speaks. “Well…actually, that’s it. Except… I think I might actually really like this guy.”

“After just one date?” Janet asks skeptically.

“I know, I know—it sounds too fast. But haven’t you ever just felt that…that…instant connection? That total ‘we just get each other’ vibe?”

“No,” Mary responds between hungry bites of bagel. “I’m so jealous of you right now.”

“I’ve felt it,” Janet says, slightly wistful. “With Sara. The first night I met her, it was like, ‘Omygod, you’re perfect for me.’”

“Right! See? So you totally get what I’m talking about then,” says Rochelle.

“Well, Sara’s not exactly the best example, Ro…” Janet sips her coffee.

“Whatever. I know. It’s just that I had a really amazing time with Dylan. He was…I don’t know—he just has everything I’m looking for: he’s sweet, funny, sensitive, good –looking…”

“Employed?” Janet asks, a little sarcastically.

“What does he do?” Mary asks.

“He’s a musician,” Rochelle replies. “He’s in a band.”

“And he makes a living doing this?” Janet says, half-impressed, half-skeptical.

“Actually…I don’t know. He didn’t mention another job…”

“Oh, honey,” Janet says sympathetically. “He’s a waiter.”

“Come on,” Rochelle says, disbelieving.

“I’m serious. He’s a waiter,” Janet says as if telling a child there’s no Santa Claus. “It’s a fact, Ro. All musicians in L.A. are waiters. All actors are, too. It’s just part of the prerequisite for living here.”

“He’s not a waiter,” Rochelle says, maybe trying to convince herself more than Janet.

“Does it really matter?” asks Janet. “I mean, he’s gotta pay the bills somehow while he chases his rock star dreams. Better than him selling drugs. Or hooking.”

“Janet…” Rochelle says scoldingly.

“Waiter,” Janet repeats, teasing Rochelle at this point.

“He is not a waiter,” Rochelle reiterates.

“Sorry, Ro,” Janet responds. “Odds are good…”

“Mary?” Rochelle says, looking for support.

“Waiter, Ro,” Mary responds. “Sorry.”

Rochelle sits for a moment, mulling this potential news over.

“Well, you know what? It’s not a big deal. So he’s a waiter. So what? I’m not after a rich guy anyways. I don’t give a damn about how much money he makes. He’s a nice guy. A good guy. How many of those are there out there? Twelve?”

“If that,” Mary says. “And half of them are gay.”

“Actually, it’s more like two-thirds,” adds Janet, finishing her coffee.

“See? I think I might have a keeper, and I’m not gonna just dismiss it out-of-hand simply because he might not make much money.”

“You’re a more noble woman than I,” says Mary as she finishes off her bagel.

“Paris Hilton is a more noble woman than you,” quips Janet.

“Oh, screw you,” Mary responds dismissively.

“You wish,” Janet replies tauntingly.

“Shut up,” Mary says. “Where’s the check?”

“Grab our waiter,” Janet says. “Oh, wait—there he is. Dylan!”

“Oh!” Rochelle exclaims, mock-mortified. “Stop it! That’s not funny!”

Janet and Mary’s laughter begs to differ.

Chapter 3: Dinner and a Sunset

After two hours of scintillating talk and lukewarm beverages, Dylan asks, “Are you hungry?”

Rochelle looks back at Dylan, sets her coffee cup down and replies, “I could eat.”

“Do you wanna go get some dinner?”

“Depends,” she replies a little coyly. “What did you have in mind?”

“Well, we could have a scone or coffee cake here, or we could go to a restaurant and get some real food.” Dylan says.

“Um, real food, please.”

“Great. What do you want to eat?”

“Oh, dear,” says Rochelle.

“What’s wrong?” Dylan asks.

“I’m just terrible at making these kinds of decisions. I know, I know—it’s lame. I just can never decide on these simple things, like where to go for dinner.”

“That’s okay,” Dylan replies. “How ‘bout I make some suggestions? There’s a really good Thai place nearby…”

“Eehh…” Rochelle says unenthusiastically.

“Mexican? I know a couple of places…”

“I had Mexican last night,” Rochelle replies apologetically.

“How about Italian? I know a really good Italian place down by the pier. It’s kind of a little hole in the wall place, but the food’s really good.”

“That sounds perfect.”

********

The pair decides to take one car to the restaurant, for convenience’s sake. Besides, Rochelle had such an ordeal finding her parking spot that she’s not quite ready to give it up just yet.

Dylan drives the brief distance to the Santa Monica pier. His Ford Taurus is spotless.

“Wow. Your car is so clean,” Rochelle says.

“Well, I just had it washed a few days ago,” Dylan responds.

“Yeah, but the inside is so neat and tidy…”

“What? You expected me to be a slob? Just because I’m a musician doesn’t mean I’m a dirty,” Dylan says playfully.

“No, I didn’t expect you to be a slob,” Rochelle replies. “I didn’t expect you to drive a Taurus…”

“Yeah, well, I used to drive a Firebird, but it kept breaking down,” says Dylan a little sheepishly. “I realize this isn’t the most ‘rock star’ vehicle, but it does fit my ‘aspiring rock star’ budget.”

“Oh, I’m not criticizing,” says Rochelle. “I like your car. And it is very neat. My car is a mess.”

“Oh, so you're the slob!” Dylan says teasingly.

“Why, yes. Haven’t you heard? All us paralegals are messy.”

“No, I hadn’t heard that,” says Dylan, chuckling. “So tell me about your job.”

“Not much to tell,” says Rochelle. “It’s pretty dull, actually. Mostly I just review documents. I don’t go to court, I don’t make any real decisions. I mostly just do research.”

“Ever think about practicing law? Becoming an attorney?”

“Not really. I mean, I went to law school and everything…”

“So why aren’t you a lawyer?” asks Dylan.

“Well, there’s this little test you have to pass first…” Rochelle replies.

“You mean the Bar Exam?” says Dylan.

“Right,” Rochelle answers.

“And you didn’t pass?”

“Not so much.”

“I’m sorry—sore subject?” Dylan asks, concerned.

“Not really. Not anymore. Now I just laugh about it, make jokes and stuff. I’m over the law thing these days. The more I work in the field, the less I want to be a part of it. I thought about re-taking the test, but it’s just not what I want anymore.”

“What do you want?”

“I’m not sure. I haven’t figured that part out yet. That’s why I’m doing the paralegal work—I don’t know what else to do with myself,” Rochelle says.

“Well, if you could do whatever you want, without regard to making money, what would it be?” Dylan asks.

“Hmm. I don’t know. Write, maybe?” Rochelle ponders aloud.

“Write?”

“Yeah,” Rochelle says. “I’d like to write. Books, mainly. I love books. I’m an avid reader. I think that, if I didn’t need to worry about money, I’d write books. I’d be a writer.”

“A writer, huh?” Dylan says. “A woman after my own heart…”

“Aspiring writer. An L.A. cliché,” Rochelle responds.

“Are you saying I’m a cliché?” asks Dylan, mock-offended.

“No, of course not,” Rochelle says. “But I thought you were a musician?”

“I am,” Dylan responds. “But I write, too.”

“Well, no, I’m not calling you a cliché. I didn’t even know you write. Though… aspiring rock star is kinda cliché, too.”

“Thanks,” says Dylan sarcastically. “Fortunately, we’re here.”

“You know I’m just kidding, right?” says Rochelle, a little concerned.

“Yeah, sure,” says Dylan, feigning annoyance.

“Wow, I didn’t realize that aspiring rock stars are so sensitive,” Rochelle says, catching on to the game and playing along.

“Hey, at least I didn’t fail the Bar Exam,” Dylan says playfully.

“You didn’t even take the Exam!”

Dylan laughs. Rochelle joins in. “Right now,” Dylan says, “I’m just aspiring to find a place to park.”

********

Dylan manages to find a parking space with considerably less difficulty than Rochelle did earlier. The restaurant really is a hole in the wall; it’s an old-style Italian joint, complete with the red-checkered tablecloths. The place is small, but it’s not crowded.

The pair is waited on promptly. Dylan orders the ravioli, and Rochelle has the lasagna, which Dylan recommends. Their food comes quick, and they’re hungrier than they realize, as dinner becomes quite quiet while they eat.

“God, we must be starving! Nobody’s talking,” says Rochelle between bites.

“Yeah, I didn’t realize how hungry I was until the food was placed in front of me,” Dylan says.

“I feel like such a pig,” Rochelle says as she shovels a large bite of lasagna into her mouth. Cheese hangs from the corner of her mouth.

“Hold on a sec,” Dylan says. He leans over, puts his hand gently on her chin, and brushes the cheese off slowly with his thumb. The move is a little…intimate.

“Oh, god,” Rochelle says, turning red. “I’m a bit embarrassed…”

“Don’t be,” Dylan says softly.

********

The check comes almost as quickly as the food. Dylan pays, despite protest from Rochelle. They walk outside and the sun has almost gone down. A chill greets them as they step away from the alcove entrance. Without saying a word, Dylan takes off his black leather jacket and puts it around Rochelle’s shoulders. She smiles and silently accepts. Normally she’d protest, say that he’ll be too cold without it, but the gesture melts her so completely that she can’t even feign not wanting it. She doesn’t even need the jacket that badly—she just loves that he gave it to her.

“Want to go take a walk on the pier?” Dylan asks.

“Sure,” Rochelle replies.

Dylan takes Rochelle by the hand, and he’s surprised by how nervous he feels. It’s like being in grade school again—this hand-holding feels like a monumental step. Dylan can’t explain it, but Rochelle excites him in a way that he hasn’t felt in a long, long time. Everything is heightened—every word, every moment. It all seems to have much more meaning than it normally does when he’s on a date.

The sun sets over the water, creating a reddish glow over the waves. The scene is picturesque, perfect really. The couple stands at the end of the pier, silently taking in the last remaining seconds of their first sunset together. Dylan stands behind Rochelle and wraps his arms around her waist, and the move seems all at once exhilarating and frightening and somehow familiar. Dylan feels that he belongs there.

Rochelle leans back into Dylan, enjoying the comforting warmth of his presence behind her. She feels safe in his arms, she feels at home there. Inside, her heart beats a thousand times a minute, but on the exterior she’s all calmness and serenity.

The last bit of the sun disappears behind the horizon. Rochelle turns to face Dylan, opens her mouth to say something, thinks better of it, and merely looks in his eyes. Dylan leans in, lips parted, eyes locked on hers. Rochelle closes her eyes as his lips brush lightly against hers, then press harder. His eyes are closed now too, and his arms tighten around her.

Their first kiss is as perfect as the sunset.

Chapter 2: A Best Friend's Duty

It’s almost 3:15—almost time to make the call.

Janet Gold stares at the digital clock on the VCR. She sits on her futon, the cordless phone resting idly in her left hand. Almost time.

It’s kind of ridiculous, when you think about it, sitting around to make this call. It’s not as if Janet doesn’t have better things to do. Still, Rochelle is her friend, and this is what friends do. Friends do favours for each other.

Still, it all seems kind of juvenile. Really, if Rochelle’s not into the guy, she should just be honest about it, say she’s not interested, excuse herself, and leave. She shouldn’t have to play games and make up excuses. But this is the way Rochelle wants to do it. And, truth be told, it’s the way many women would do it. This wasn’t Janet’s first “out” call.

For those that don’t know, this is how the “out” call works: the friend at home calls at a predetermined time, usually shortly after the date is scheduled to begin. The friend feigns some sort of emergency that generally requires that the woman on the date leave immediately. This is so said woman can escape a bad date early without any fuss or scene; the phone call provides the “out” that she needs. If the date is going well, then the woman does not acknowledge any emergency—she merely responds to the call with a polite, “I’ll have to call you back later, I’m out right now.” If the date is bad, the friend will hear, “I’ll be right there,” or “I’m on my way.”

The flaw, of course, is that the “out” call comes before any real conversation can be made during the date. So, naturally, the “out” call has basically become a way to escape an ugly date rather than a date that’s dull or just lacks chemistry.

Janet finds the whole thing a bit obnoxious, really. Of course, she’s a little more open-minded to the idea of the blind date than Rochelle. Rochelle is a shy girl by nature, while Janet is generally more outgoing and adventurous. Janet thrives on the idea of meeting perfect strangers, seeing if she clicks with them. Rochelle had to be pushed into this date, into trying the whole Match.com thing. It would be a healthy experience for her, Janet thinks, if she’d just give it half a chance.

Janet fully expects Rochelle to take advantage of the “out” call.

In all fairness, the guy that Rochelle was meeting this afternoon didn’t sound like anything special. His photo was okay, but his profile sounded rather generic. He’s in a band, just like every other guy in L.A. who’s not an aspiring actor or writer. He sounded like he might be a bit witty, but also maybe a bit flakey. Still, it’s hard to judge somebody from a profile. Janet fully admits that her profile makes her sound like some obsessed gym bunny. Still, with men it often seems that what you see is what you get; most guys don’t have hidden depths. It’s just one of many reasons why Janet prefers women...

3:15 now. Janet dials Rochelle’s cell.

Rochelle picks up on the third ring, “Hello?”

“So am I asking you to come rescue me from some imaginary dilemma?” asks Janet dryly.

“No, no,” Rochelle says, and the tone of her voice is incongruent with the conversation. Obviously the date is in her presence.

“So I gather that you won’t be rushing out of the café? I guess we’re not having sushi tonight?”

“I don’t think so,” Rochelle says, again as if she’s trying to disguise the topic of her conversation.

“What about breakfast tomorrow morning? Is that off too?” Janet asks.

“I’ll have to call you back later. I’m out right now.”

********

“So that was the ‘out’ call?” Dylan asks as Rochelle hangs up her phone.

“What do you mean?” Rochelle replies innocently. She takes a drink of her latte.

“Come on,” Dylan says. “I’ve have the 'out' call happen to me before. I’m pretty familiar with it. Besides, you haven’t said you have to go, so I figure I’ve passed the test.”

“Sorry,” Rochelle replies sheepishly. “I just was really nervous about how this was all gonna go. I mean, I’ve never done Internet dating before.”

“Oh, it’s no problem. I’m kinda with you—this is my first time with the Internet thing. I mean, for me, it took a while to get over the stigma of it.”

“Stigma?”

“Yeah, you know—computer geeks who are too much of a loser to get dates on their own. That kind of thing.”

“I see,” says Rochelle a little hesitantly. “Well, I got talked into it by my best friend. She swears by it.”

“Oh! Wait! I’m sorry,” says Dylan. “I wasn’t…I mean…I didn’t mean to insult your friend…”

“Oh, don’t worry about it,” says Rochelle dismissively.

There’s an awkward silence as Dylan hangs his head and stares at his paper hot chocolate cup. He’s obviously a bit embarrassed. Rochelle looks out the window, not quite sure what to say.

After what seems like a mini-eternity, Dylan speaks. “God, I feel like that John Mayer song. You know, that one where he’s on the date with the girl and says something that insults her?”

“You mean, ‘My Stupid Mouth’?”

“I don’t know what it’s called,” says Dylan. “I’m not the biggest John Mayer fan.”

“I love him. I think he’s very talented.”

“I think he’s talented, too. That’s what kind of bugs me about him. I mean, he’s younger than me but we’re very similar in ability—so why not me, y’know? Why did he get the break and not me?”

“That’s right,” says Rochelle. “You’re an aspiring musician. What was your band’s name again?”

“Angry Buddha,” replies Dylan.

“Angry Buddha. Interesting name.”

“Yeah, we’re kind of a heavily-Beatles-influenced alt-rock band.”

“So you’re like Oasis.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that…”

“Well, what would you say?” says Rochelle, a mischievous grin crossing her lips.

“I’d say…I’d say that I wouldn’t want to be able to compare my band to any other band. Maybe I’ll just bring you a CD the next time we go out.”

“My, that’s a little presumptuous of you,” says Rochelle, now in a full-blown smile.

“I like to think of it as optimism rather than presumption,” Dylan replies, matching Rochelle’s smile.

********

Janet feels a little jealous. She’s happy for Rochelle—lord knows she needs a little action in her life—but she’d been looking forward to spending time with her this evening. She knows it's selfish of her, but she’d kind of hoped that the date would go bad so that she and Rochelle could hang and bitch about it. Now she’d see Rochelle tomorrow and all Rochelle’d wanna talk about would be this new guy and how cute he is and how funny he is and oh how he did the most adorable thing or he said the funniest whatever and blah blah blah. Boring.

So Janet was feeling a bit bitchy. So what? She was a little annoyed that she’d been on Match.com for a while and had yet to have anything pan out for her—meanwhile Rochelle has a profile for 48 hours before she’s getting asked out on dates. It didn’t seem fair, really. Janet had been looking for someone just as long as Rochelle. Why wasn’t she out right now?

Janet hasn’t had a meaningful relationship since she and Sara broke up three years ago. Sara broke her heart, and it took a long time for Janet to heal from it and try to start dating again. Once she decided to take the plunge, she found that it was much more difficult than she’d anticipated. She found that just because she was ready to start dating people didn’t mean that they wanted to date her.

In the three years since Sara, Janet had maybe been on seven actual dates with six different people. If you’re counting, that’s only one second date. And out of those seven dates, only three resulted in sex—and the second date wasn't one of them.

It used to be so much easier in college—there were a lot of girls who were questioning their sexuality, or were just a little curious, or they wanted to have a lesbian tale to tell guys to get them turned on. Whatever the case, there were a lot of good-looking girls who were willing to experiment. It was easier to get laid.

When Janet and Sara moved in together, Janet figured it’d be easy to give all that up. But it hadn’t been easy, it’d been a lot of work. Janet had struggled to be faithful, but she’d succeeded. And then, suddenly, Sara was gone and Janet found herself out of practice in the hook-up game.

Supposedly it was easy to hook up in the West Hollywood area, but Janet had been to the bars and clubs there and wasn’t impressed. Silverlake was the same problem—lots of women, but none of them looking…at least none of them Janet’s age. They were always babydykes or middle-aged butches.

Maybe Janet was too picky. Janet was too picky, but that wasn’t the problem. Janet hadn’t even had the opportunity to be picky; nobody seemed to be that interested in Janet. Even with Match.com—it’s not like she had a lot of chances to ignore people’s emails. She hadn’t received any. For whatever reason, nobody seemed to want her. She couldn’t figure it out, either—she's still young, nice-looking, in great shape, makes a decent living—she should be considered a catch. Guess the word hasn’t gotten out yet…

Janet decides to shake off the self-pity and do something with her afternoon. She can still catch Tanya’s 4:00 yoga class if she changes and leaves now. People often find it odd that she'll take other people’s yoga classes, being an instructor herself. She’s given up trying to explain yoga in words. She’ll challenge people to try a class or two if they really want to understand. She's still trying to get Rochelle to go, but Rochelle is always running around, too busy with other things.

How is Rochelle expecting to work a relationship into her life? She seems to hardly have any free time as it is—how is she going to find time for a man? Janet hops into the shower thinking about just how inconvenient love would be for Rochelle right now. Really, if she thinks about it, Rochelle will realize just how bad an idea it is for her to start dating someone at this point in her life.

Maybe Janet is just being jealous again. After all, Rochelle had been excited about the date. She said the guy had sent her some great emails, and they’d had a couple of great phone conversations. She’d also rejected the “out” call. No, Rochelle seems to know what she's doing, or at least Janet hopes so.

And if she doesn't…well, they’ll go have sushi and bitch about it.