Sing a cappella.
I’m no Peter Gabriel. I’m definitely no Debbie Gibson. But this will have to do.
I sing my off-key, no-one-would-even-want-to-hear-me-sing-Happy-Birthday heart out.
And what do you know? It’s working. Oh hell yeah, it’s working so damn well she yanks back the curtain, flings open the window, and waves.
I blink.
The woman peering back at me is definitely not Cassandra.
3
Her
It is a truth universally acknowledged that any ice cream will do when you’re wallowing.
Häagen-Dazs. Ben & Jerry’s. Talenti. It doesn’t matter.
Mint chip. Chocolate peanut butter cup. Salted caramel. They all fit the bill.
I hold up the pint, talking like a ringmaster to my audience of one—me. “Step right up, ladies and gentlemen, children of all ages, welcome to the big top of . . . Chunky Monkey.” I let my voice reverberate like it’s carrying through the circus tent and I’m surrounded by peanuts and sawdust, a tent and a trapeze.
“Watch as the forlorn TV writer tunnels through a pint of Chunky Monkey. Marvel as she uncovers every single chunk of chocolate and consumes each piece of walnut. Thrill at the way she reaches the bottom of the container in less than thirty minutes.”
I let the empty carton drop on the marble counter with a weak thump, grab a bottle of Chardonnay from the counter, and use my imaginary megaphone again. “Prepare to be amazed as she adds alcohol to the party of one.”
I find a corkscrew and get to work.
Holy hell.
Did someone say opening wine isn’t exercise? Because that person is dead wrong. I can literally feel my triceps growing as I speak. I am totally adding opening wine bottles to the calorie-burning counter on every website ever.
I grunt as I yank the cork higher, then at last, triumphant, I toss the cork to the ground, briefly considering whether I should use a glass.
Only briefly.
I down a thirsty gulp straight from the source.
I return to the kitchen counter and my open laptop, where I did indeed bang out a scene today, thank you Speedo very much.
Even when I’m sad, I write.
Because Tina Fey, the goddess of comedy, said it best in Bossypants when she wrote, “I’m unstoppable because I don’t know how to stop.”
I am definitely not unstoppable. But if I act like Tina Fey, maybe, just maybe, I can finagle that six-episode renewal.
As I peruse the scenes, the opening notes of a song filter from the front of my townhome. What the hell? Did I leave the streaming app open on my phone? I step away from the counter and head to the front door, looking for my phone, even though I swear I had it with me in the kitchen.
The song grows louder, and it’s not coming from my cell at all. It’s coming from outside. I peer through the peephole.
I jerk back.
Rub my eyes.
What the hell?
Am I really seeing what I’m seeing? I don’t think I had that much wine. I had one sip.
Fine, fine. One large sip. One very large, very hearty sip. All right, it was a gulp.
But I can’t possibly be hallucinating, can I?
I peek again, and holy smokes.
There’s a guy on my front lawn going full Lloyd Dobler.
The hair on the back of my neck stands on end, and my paranoid brain leaps three thousand steps ahead. Did he escape from Alcatraz? Is he going to bang down my door? Attack me?
I pivot and grab the baseball bat I keep handy. As the youngest sister of two older brothers, I’ve learned a few valuable lessons: boys are trouble, pizza is good cold, and always keep a baseball bat near the door and/or bed.
With my bat in hand, I scurry to the kitchen to grab my phone, then fly upstairs to the bedroom, taking the steps two by two.
I race into the bedroom, set the bat at my feet, and keep my phone clutched in my hand, ready to call 911 if need be. I pull back the white curtain a smidge.
And I nearly die laughing.
The song has stopped, and the Dobler wannabe is now kneeling on the ground, furiously hitting buttons on the boom box.
I peer around the curtain’s edge, and it’s like watching a sideshow act auditioning for my circus.
He hoists the boom box up above him again. A new tune plays. I cock my head, listening, and I cringe when I recognize the tune.
For real? Is he truly playing “Unzipped”? I could never stand that song when it was popular eight years ago. The music sounds like a can opener mating with a trombone. I wish he were playing Peter Gabriel’s “In Your Eyes,” like Dobler did in the film.
But as I study the bizarre suburban male mating ritual, I decide to award him points for sheer balls. He also deserves bonus points because he chose to go without the super cheesy trench coat that Dobler wore. It worked for Cusack, but on anyone else that attire screams serial killer.
This guy seems harmless.
And admittedly, from my vantage point two stories above, he’s kind of handsome with the glasses, the thick, floppy hair, and the jeans that fit nicely. Strong jaw too.
Fine, fine. He’s more than kind of handsome. He’s 100 percent good-looking, in that hot nerd kind of way.
The song stops playing. I straighten and inch closer. What will he do?
The answer?
Go balls to the wall.
He does it. He sings solo. He belts it out. His voice is scratchy and terrible and off-key in ways I’ve never even known a song could be.
He’s singing about wanting her love, wanting her back. And the look on his face, the hope in his eyes, the commitment to the song, it touches a part of my heart.
The creative part of my heart, because I’m witnessing a gift from the muses.
This man is an angel.
I’ve never seen him before, which means he’s surely got the wrong address. He’s embarrassing himself for nothing.
And I’m the lucky recipient of the sideshow. This is real life on steroids, and truth is stranger than fiction if a living, breathing man thinks something like this is going to work to win a woman who’s not even here.
This is exactly what I need for my TV show.
As the song nears its end, I fling open the window, yank back the curtain, and wave.
He blinks when he sees my face, then falters on the words in one of the last few lines.
I make a keep-rolling gesture. “Go on. I want to hear the end of it.”
His brow knits. “Do you enjoy badly sung ballads?”
I nod vigorously. “Seems I do.”
He shrugs as if to say suit yourself, then does as requested, and when he’s done, I cheer. “I love it.”
He scratches his jaw. “So, is there any chance Cassandra is hiding back there?”
Ohhhhh.
“You’re looking for Cassie Martinez?”
“Yes, that badly sung ballad was intended for her, and it’d make my night if she’s crouched behind the curtains, beside herself with happiness.”
I try to rein in the laughter. This guy. His heart.
Most of all, these damn numbers on these townhomes.
I frown on his behalf. “It’s just me.” I pat the windowpane. “This is my home. 101 Vintage Oaks Lane. But technically, it’s 101A, and technically she’s 101B. We share a doorway.”
His face is crestfallen. Utter devastation slides across his features like a neon sign flashing all that for nothing.
Poor guy.
“Don’t worry—even the mailman gets confused. Don’t get me started with the UPS mix-ups when it comes to Amazon Prime. I got her yoga candles, and she got my—”
I cut myself off. Maybe best not to let on I ordered some underwear from Amazon. But when I saw the black low-rise undies with the words pants are dumb on the butt I could not resist.
I point to the window a few feet from me. “Anyway, I suspect that window is the one you wanted. That’s her bedroom. But she’s not home. She never is. She Airbnbs the place all the time.”
The guy shakes his head, hanging it. “Just my luck,” he mutters.
“But look on the bright side. Last night, there were two big, burly biker dudes staying there as they rode up the coast. At least you got me tonight.” I flash him a cheery grin. “And we need to talk, Lloyd. Don’t go.” I hold up my hand as a stop sign. “Stay there.”
I race downstairs and invite the Say Anything imitator out for a cup of coffee. I need to know everything. Every single detail about his antics tonight.