With a Little Luck: A Novel (37 page)

“She would never.”

“That’s one small check in her pros column, I suppose.”

“So what’s holding you back?” I ask, trying to be cool, trying to look cool, trying to act cool, heart jammed somewhere between my esophagus and my tonsils.

He’s serious now. He looks me straight in the eyes and says, “Being lumped in with the two yokels that you dated before me, among other things.”

“I’m sorry for that,” I say. “You told Screwed Up you wanted to see a girl in the flesh who knew how to say she was sorry. Well, there you go. Witness: I. Am. Sorry.”

“Thank you,” he says, and can’t hold back his devilish grin. “Because I demand to be treated like the unique snowflake I am.”

Now we’re both smiling, and I feel a little better, but I want more. Off-air.

“Can we get a coffee when your shift is over?” I ask.

“Fine,” he says. “But you’re paying.”

“That’s fine,” I say.

“And I want a doughnut,” he adds.

“You got it,” I say.

“Will you guys just kiss and make up already?” Wendell says.

“We are private people,” Ryan replies. “Mind your own business.”

Ryan knows his doughnuts and the doughnuts at Stan’s in Westwood are always fresh out of the fryer. He gets the peanut-butter-chocolate
doughnut, and I opt for the classic glazed. At the register, Ryan won’t let me pay even though he insisted I do over the air. We get back in the car and don’t stop until we get to the ocean.

Sitting together in the sand, I can feel Ryan’s hesitation. He doesn’t want to live on eggshells, worrying about which superstition he’s crossing, and I don’t blame him. But I’ve been making a lot of progress. I know I’m the one in control of my destiny.

And I am damn well gonna fight for him.

“You want to know the secret to shopping smart?” I ask.

“Sure,” he says, not sure where I’m going with this.

“When you find something you think you want to buy … you leave the store.”

“I suppose that’s one way to save your money.”

“I’m not finished,” I say.

“By all means,” he replies with a bemused grin.

“If you can’t stop thinking about it … then you go back and get it. And if you don’t find yourself obsessing over it … then obviously you can live without it.”

“But what if somebody else buys it when you’re figuring out if you can’t live without it?”

“You put it on hold before you leave.”

“Ah,” he says. “You left that part out.”

“You can’t put people on hold, though,” I say. “That’s where the metaphor kind of falls apart.”

“The whole setting-something-free thing to see if it comes back to you?”

“Exactly. Except my version would be the more proactive version. Setting it free to see if you can’t live without it. And not seeing if it comes back to you, but rather, going back and getting it.”

“Your version also isn’t so much ‘setting it free’ as ‘kicking it to the curb based on superstitious manias.’ ”

“Come with me,” I say, and I stand and brush the sand from my jeans.

When we get to where the tide comes in, I reach around my neck and unclasp my lucky horseshoe necklace. Strange thing is, I can almost still feel it there around my neck, getting tighter, even, almost choking me. It’s fear. Fear of letting go. Fear of the unknown. A few deep breaths and the clarity kicks in. I swallow and shake it off. Ryan is none the wiser to my brief moment of panic.

“See this?” I say, holding my hand out before him, the necklace catching a light beam from the moonlight, glistening almost as if on cue.

“I know it well,” he says. “The sacred lucky horseshoe.”

“Exactly,” I say. “You know what it means to me.”

“I do.”

“And you know what you mean to me?” I ask, eyebrows raised, hoping for a yes.

“You know, I think I do,” he says. “Actually, yes, now I know I do. I’m saying a lot of ‘I do’s’ here.”

“Good thing there are no witnesses,” I tease.

“No kidding,” he says, but he’s smiling wide, and it feels like he’s warming up to me.

“Witness this!” I say, and I take off into the water, my shoes sloshing into the shallow tide, the cold water shocking my ankles.

“What are you doing, you nut?” Ryan shouts as he runs after me.

“Making sure I do it right,” I say. “Making sure it gets a proper send-off.”

Before I can think too hard about what I’m doing, I reach my hand up and cock my arm back, holding it behind me for a brief moment before I squeeze my eyes shut as tight as I can and thrust the necklace forward, out of my grasp, into the now escaping tide.

“Berry, don’t!” he says, too late. “You love that thing.”

I’d be lying if I didn’t admit there was a gigantic gravitational pull urging me to run into the water after my necklace and dive around in a desperate attempt to find it. But the pull to Ryan is just that much stronger. I swallow hard, my eyes stinging with sudden tears as the horseshoe disappears beneath the waves. My heart races, and I have a million and one thoughts in about a moment’s time. I open my eyes and turn to him.

“I love this thing,” I say, motioning between the two of us. “I love what we have … or had before I screwed it up. I wish I could say, ‘I wasn’t always this way,’ but this is exactly how I’ve always been.”

“And I was a fan,” he says.

“You’re talking in past tense,” I point out.

“So were you. I’m saying, the way you have always been … that’s what drew me in. It was just the whole ‘having to walk on eggshells or else the sky would fall’ was a bit much. And even then, I was sticking it out. Look, I know I made fun of your silly habits, largely because … well, because they were silly. And I could have been more sensitive, I know. But you were the one who cut the cord.”

“I know. I was afraid. I’m done with that.”

And the beauty of the moment is I’m standing around a veritable potpourri of forbidden curses and danger zones. But where I once saw trip hazards, driftwood that might wash up at any moment and impale you, beach-buggy tread tracks that could swallow a person whole or at the very least cause a nasty ankle twist when navigating the beach in the dark, water teeming with stinging nettle seaweed that could entangle and drown an Olympic champion, runners and Rollerbladers whose crack-stepping qualified them for ten lifetimes of bad luck, I now see giant pillows of forgiving sand, a gentle ocean that washes over the tiny toes of intrepid little girls
in frilly bathing suits, the crisscrossing of happy people out soaking it all in, like Ryan and me, right now.

The ball’s in his court, of course. I’ve got the Clash’s “Should I Stay or Should I Go” in my head. “If you say that you are mine, I’ll be here ’til the end of time.”

We walk back to dry sand, and I plunk myself down where our stuff is. Ryan sits beside me, and neither of us speaks. I reach into the doughnut bag and pull out a napkin, tearing it up out of nervousness. Before I know it, I’ve made a triangle. Then I take the straw from my iced coffee and stick it through the little makeshift fabric shape I’ve torn. Once in and then out so it looks like a tiny flag. I wave it before him.

“Is that your white flag?” he says, charmed by my pathetic impromptu arts and crafts.

I smile, guilty as charged.

“So you surrender?” he asks pointedly.

“I do,” I say.

We were only just beginning when I screwed everything up, but I know I’m not living in fear anymore, and I want us to give this thing another chance. He takes the flag from my hand.

“What if I want to get a black cat?”

“We’ll name him Lionel,” I reply.

“Why Lionel?”

“You don’t find many Lionels these days.”

“True, true,” he says.

“I’m cured,” I insist. “I’m a new woman.”

“I’m not so sure,” Ryan says. “Perhaps we need a baptism.”

“That water was cold,” I say, dreading what’s coming next.

Ryan stands up and reaches out for me.

“Uh-uh,” I say, shaking my head. “No way.” But Ryan leans down and scoops me up.

“It’ll be fun,” he says as I squirm and squeal. “Refreshing.”

“Ryan,” I say. “So help me, if you throw me in that water …”

“Then what?” he asks.

“On second thought,” I say, “what are the odds we find my damn necklace? Because if you throw me in there, we are not getting out of that water until we find it.”

“Oh, man,” Ryan says as he surprisingly puts me back down.

But my smile tells him I’m kidding. I’m happy to let the necklace go, along with everything it stood for. And who knows? Maybe it’ll wash ashore and bring someone else some comfort.

As for me, I’m looking forward to the unknown. Maybe knowing isn’t what it’s all about. Being “safe” sure hasn’t kept me or my heart out of harm’s way.

“Race ya,” I say, and Ryan’s eyes widen.

We take off toward the water, but at the last moment I stop short. He dives in, fully clothed, and comes up sputtering.

“You tease!” he shouts. “Don’t you dare tell me you didn’t want to get your lucky camisole wet!”

I smile, not cured maybe, but better. Far better than I have been in a long time.

“These are two-hundred-dollar jeans,” I say. “And not to bring attention to something that might seriously bum you out right now … but would your cellphone happen to be in your pocket? Immersed in water?”

Without a word, he reaches into the water, retrieves his phone, shakes it, and looks for signs of life. Nothin’ doin’. He looks back up to me and shrugs. No matter. He doesn’t need it. The only person he wants to talk to right now is already here, shaking her head at the impetuous fool she loves.

Once you have three books under your belt, you also have three sets of acknowledgments under your belt. That means the obligatory “I’d better mention them” thing has been done. Probably all three times.

My fourth time around, I’m going to use these pages to give credit to the people who have
really
been my support system—my rocks—because without these people, this book wouldn’t be in your hands.

My mom. First and always. Your unwavering support keeps me going when I’m running out of steam. I think back to you reading me
The Little Engine That Could
, and while it’s no
Poky Little Puppy …
it’s certainly been inspirational when it comes to me finishing every project I start. I love and adore you.

My grandma. You feisty vixen, you. Thank you for the intentional and unintentional laughs you provide. Thank you for your love. I know it doesn’t come easy. Especially when I hang around with no-good, filthy louses and crooks. I love you dearly.

My stepmom. Thank you for loving my dad until he had had enough of this shithole. You made him happy, and that is everything.
Thank you for always being proud of me and for flying in from San Francisco for my Los Angeles readings. Having my family at important events means
the world
to me. Sometimes it’s the only time I get to see you, so … I guess I’ll have to keep writing books.

My dog, Max. So handsome. So wise. So loyal. I could write a whole book on how much I love this dog. And perhaps when I run out of material I will, but for now I’ll just say he’s the best little guy in the world.

David Vanker. My dear, dear friend, happily married with a baby,
always
frenzied with work, yet still takes the time to listen to my occasional rant and does his damnedest to help me when I’m in need. David, you’ve been my hero countless times, and even if you follow through on your threat to move to Pakistan to avoid my calls, I know you’d still be there, and I cherish you for it.

Missy Peregrym. The exception to the rule. Real in a town full of fakes, more beautiful inside than out, although I’m not sure that’s possible, because—just look at her. A true best friend. Someone I can count on to laugh with and cry with (and often both at once). Thank you for always pushing me to be better and stronger.

My Chicago writer girls: Jen Lancaster and Stacey Ballis. How many times did I freak out and say I wouldn’t be able to finish this book? Before I’d even started writing it, no less? Don’t answer that. Your talking me off a ledge each time made me believe I could do it. And I guess I did. I love you guys.

My New York writer girls: Karyn Bosnak, Gitty Daneshvari, and Sarah Grace McCandless. I always wondered what it would be like to have a cool group of girls to have regular dinners with and talk shop and talk boys and be silly with and to be surrounded by people who “get it.” Girls who aren’t backstabbing hos. Or at least not backstabbing ones.
Ha!

My Los Angeles writer girl: Allison Schroeder. We’ve been through wars together and both came out relatively unscathed … or at least alive. I think. Unless M. Night is pulling a fast one on us. Thank you for always brainstorming when needed and listening when needed and going house-hunting when needed and being awesome pretty much always. I’m so proud of you and everything you’ve done this year.

My Los Angeles writer boy: Neal Brennan. I can’t believe how long we’ve known each other. I
know
we’re not that old, so someone has made a mathematical error. Just go with it. You are brilliant and hilarious, and I’m glad people recognize that. Thank you for being able to make me laugh when I’m pretty sure it would otherwise be impossible. I couldn’t be happier to run into an ex every day at my local coffee shop. Seeing you is
always
a bright spot.