With a Little Luck: A Novel (20 page)

“Welcome to Chuck E. Cheese’s,” the hostess says as she looks around, behind and beyond us, to locate the children we should have with us if we’re at all self-conscious or self-respecting, which, as it turns out, neither of us is.

But then Ryan says something that catches me completely off guard.

“I heard you’d never been to Chuck E. Cheese’s before.”

“That’s true,” I reply. “But where did you hear that?”

“On the radio,” he answers. “Someone requested Jonathan Coulton, and you said that you assumed all Jonathan Coulton fans spent a lot of time at places like Medieval Times—which is uncool,
by the way; he’s great, and ‘Skullcrusher Mountain’ is a hilarious and beautiful song—and then you went on to say that you’d never been there or to any theme restaurant. Not even Chuck E. Cheese’s when you were little. And I thought,
How sad.
”

That was nearly six months ago. I remember saying that on the radio, but that was way before Ryan and I met cute over cheesecake. He’s been keeping tabs on me from afar! (I hope not from a helicopter. Come to think:
Did he and Pilot Dan already know each other? Did I bring my pepper spray?
)

I refocus. “Gee, Ryan, you have a pretty good memory for inconsequential stuff.”

“I’d hardly call Chuck deprivation inconsequential,” he balks. “Everyone should go to Chuck E. Cheese’s at least once.”

“Yeah, it wasn’t exactly on my bucket list. And I don’t recall it showing up on the one hundred, one thousand, or even one million things to see before you die. But thanks for taking such an active role in making sure my life is complete.” I’m giving him a hard time, but inside my transition to total mush is nearing completion.

“I complete you, I know. It’s what I’m here for.”

Once we’re seated and the “rules and regulations” have been laid down by Lloyd, our pimple-faced waiter, who seems as enthused about his job as he would be if you offered him some more acne, we peruse the menu, settling on the Barbecue Chicken Pizza, the Garden Fresh Salad Bar, and Cinnamon Sticks for dessert, which I can only hope will be like churros.

I’m a sucker for the old-school games—Galaga, Centipede, Ms. Pac-Man—and it turns out so is Ryan. So when we’ve finally eaten ourselves firmly to the point of gluttony, we march over to the arcade and let the games begin.

It should be noted that I’m totally comfortable eating like a pig in front of him, which is normally not the case when I’m crushing
on a guy. That’s not to say that I like Ryan any less. There’s just an ease that allows me to shove pizza into my mouth like, if I don’t eat fast enough, a basket of puppies will be killed.

It should also be noted that we play videogames for two hours, laughing our overstuffed guts off, and when it’s time to call it a day, neither of us wants to. We sit in his car for about twenty-five minutes, after which time it’s really getting obvious that either I need to just get out of the car or he needs to kiss me, ’cause otherwise he’s gonna be really late for his shift.

I reach for the door handle just as he reaches for me.

“Wait,” he says, and I turn back to face him.

“Waiting …” I say, with nervous anticipation.

And he leans in, stopping just before our lips meet. He looks me in the eyes, and we’re just centimeters from each other but I can see by the tiny crinkles forming next to his eyes that he’s smiling. I close my eyes and feel things I have never felt until now. Like these are the lips that were created to kiss mine. This is a kiss that I would never get bored of. This is that thing you read about but think doesn’t really exist. But it turns out it does.

Double uh-oh
.

—
KRAMER, ON
SEINFELD

So, yes, the next six weeks are pure bliss. My show ends later than his, but our days are open to spend time together. I constantly remind myself that he’s Guy Number Three and I shouldn’t get my hopes up—I even push him a little at times, testing him, giving him reason to be a jerk or show his true colors or introduce me to his wife and family—but each passing day seems to prove me wrong. A rare case where I’m happy to be proven wrong.

We spend our first weekend away together at a bed-and-breakfast in Laguna, and my heart melts when I find out he’s made special arrangements for Moose to come with us. Ryan is considerate
and charming—and his biting sense of humor and severe case of the smarts give him balance. His obvious good looks, when you add everything else up, are just a bonus. Looking at
la package totale
, it’s virtually impossible not to fall for him.

Everyone at both stations knows we’re a couple, and while at first we tried to hide it, we ultimately decided there was no point. Even interest from callers has quieted to a dull roar since we’ve stopped divulging the date dirt. And we don’t work at the same station, so if by some stroke of bad luck things go south—which, who am I kidding, they always inevitably do—he can stay on his floor, I’ll stay on mine, and we’ll just pretend this never happened.

As if.

I’m a pretty private person by nature. While, yes, I scan all of the gossip blogs every morning so I can have fodder for my show and be in the know so I’m not blindsided by caller questions, the truth is I find them all to be completely vile. Each crotch shot more disgusting than the next. I can’t imagine what it’s like for these celebrities to be under a microscope 24/7, and you can argue that “this is the life they chose” so they deserve it, but I disagree. These people chose to play a sport or act in films or on TV or on the stage; they didn’t go into those careers because they were desperately seeking an invasion of their privacy. The same does not hold true for reality stars of any kind. Those people get what they deserve, and I have no sympathy for the Kates and Kardashians of the world. And, yes, on occasion I’ll give out a few random tidbits about my life on the air here and there, but only if it’s wildly interesting or, alternatively, a sign that I’m completely unraveling. It’s never the focus of a show, not that anything in my life is interesting enough to hold people’s
attention any longer than someone fixing a flat tire on the freeway shoulder.

So you can imagine my surprise when Bill calls me into his office on a Monday morning to tell me that they want Ryan—Unprivate “Dr. Love” Ryan, mind you—and me to co-host a new morning show. The privatization of our relationship has resulted in a drop in listenership, or that’s how they perceive it, and they want to reclaim some of that traffic.

“Berry, did you hear what I said?” Bill nudges.

But I stand there, staring at his gross poster of Lita Ford in a bathing suit, holding a guitar, while I ponder what I’ve just heard. The poster in and of itself isn’t gross. Lita’s gorgeous, and we should all be so lucky to have a body like that. What’s gross is that it’s the only poster in his office. The only thing on his walls. There are no family photos on his desk, no finger-painted masterpieces framed on the bookshelf. Lita Ford is the focal point of this creepy man’s office.

“Berry! Hello!”

Finally I tear my eyes away from Lita and answer. “Yes, hello.”

“This is great news,” he says, trying to convince me.

“I don’t know, Bill,” I say, and start backing out of his office without even realizing I’m doing it.

“Where are you going?” he asks.

“Me? Nowhere.”

“Berry, this is what we need. It’s what the station needs. The show will be on KKCR. You can still keep your nighttime slot, Ryan can keep his evening, and you’ll have this show in the mornings.”

“And when do we have our own life?”

“You don’t get to have a life right now, Berry.”

Even Bill realizes that the way he just said that sounded awful, so he starts backpedaling as he pushes his comb-over farther back on his head, one lone sprout now sticking up uncomfortably. “You’ll be like Regis and Kelly without Regis. Kelly and Hot Guy.”

“They’re on TV,” I counter.

“You’ll be on billboards,” he says. “Bus stops. We’re gonna do the full-court press.”

“I’ll talk about it with Ryan,” I say. “It’s not just up to me.”

“He’ll do it.”

“You don’t know that for sure.”

“I’ll bet you he says yes with minimal discussion,” Bill says, quite sure of himself.

“Can I go now?” I say. “I need to prep for my show.”

“You’re acting like this isn’t great news,” Bill says. “This is a big deal, Berry.”

“I get it,” I say. “I appreciate the offer. I don’t mean to come off as ungrateful.”

“Think about it, Berry.”

“I will.”

I weigh the pros and cons as I walk to my office. It seems like a no-brainer, right? A big morning radio show? Morning is “prime time” in radio. It’s a big deal.
Pro
. Having my private life made public on a daily basis?
Con
. I didn’t even get into the money thing, but it would double my pay at the very least, I’d assume.
Pro
. Navigating a brand-new relationship, live on the radio?
Con
. Having to work all day and then work all night?
Con
.

Before I even get back to my office, my cellphone rings. I know it’s Ryan before I even answer. Not just because he has his own personalized ring on my cellphone, which has changed four times
since we’ve started dating. The first song was “Wish You Were Here” by Pink Floyd. No matter how much time we spent together, I always missed him when we were apart, so it seemed fitting. But it got old. Plus, one day when we were having our first mini-argument—neither of us felt like choosing where we were going to eat for dinner, and we got into a stupid disagreement over who picked where we ate more often (pretty sure it was me, but Ryan would disagree)—I decided that I did not in fact wish he were here. And that I was starving and going to kill him if he didn’t just pick a restaurant. I changed his song to “Hungry Like the Wolf” by Duran Duran. Then I felt guilty, and once my hypoglycemia faded and the hungry beast turned back into normal girl, I changed it to “Happy Together” by The Turtles. I mean, why would his ringtone be “Hungry Like the Wolf”? It made no sense. Unless he was obese, and then it would just be insulting. Then “Happy Together” just seemed too … happy, so after much internal deliberation, I settled on “No One Like You” by the Scorpions.

And that’s what’s blaring as I walk through the hall and try to hold off on answering until I get to my office so we can at least have some privacy. I pick up my pace and rush into my office, kicking the door shut behind me.

“I can’t imagine what you’re calling about,” I say, when I pick up.

“This is amazing,” he says. “Are you freaking out?”

“Kind of,” I say, but I don’t let on that my freak-out is not necessarily of the “Oh my God, I’m so happy” variety.

“You’re on the fence,” he says.

Through laughter that’s only half forced, I reply, “You know me so well already.”

“It’s a no-brainer,” he says.

“For you,” I counter.

“For us,” he says. Then adds, “For anyone.”

“Anyone who is used to just … talking on the radio. That’s your deal, not mine. I only talk if there’s something interesting going on or it’s been a while since I’ve introed a song. I don’t just blabber.”

“But you can,” he says. “You have. You did it with me for the contest, and you were great.”

“I don’t know, Ryan.”

“Berry, this is huge.”

“I know it is.”

“It’s prime time,” he adds.

“I know, I know.…”

“I know you can do it. I know it’s weird for you to talk for a whole show. It’s not what you’re used to.… But it’s fun. I think once you got used to it, you’d love it.”

“I know you want it … which, honestly, Ryan, is the only reason I’m even considering it.”

“But you are.…” he says. “You are considering it?”