Say Never Page 20

  By the time I had my degree in communications, I got hired at a talk radio station in San Francisco where I worked my way up from gofer to fill-in weather-girl, and eventually got a regular news-and-San-Fran-hot-spots report. That was about the time when I met Brian, my ex.

  I hadn’t had many boyfriends in my life. School and work were my social outlets. Brian was a young, hotshot assistant station manager and he was dazzling and handsome and he made me feel like I was the most special person in the world. Also, he gave me orgasms, which I’d never had before. When he asked me to marry him, I was so overwhelmed by my recently awakened girl-parts that I’d said yes. (It should be noted that he proposed in bed after a triple header, and I may have been a bit sex-drunk at the time.)

  During our entire courtship, he’d seemed ambivalent about having kids, and I deluded myself into believing that we would be one of those awesome power couples who took the world by storm and lived separate but parallel lives and never had kids but were just fine with it because we were so busy being amazing.

  But, alas, shortly after we got married, he stopped giving me orgasms. And started giving other people orgasms. And that, basically, was the end of story. I moved to New York on the heels of my personal disaster and started at WTLC where, once again, I had to work my way up from coffee-fetcher to full-fledged radio journalist.

  I take a breath and lean back toward the mic. “I’d like to talk about in-laws for just a moment, because I’m currently being tortured by a particular in-law who shall remain nameless, except that her name rhymes with Marilyn and starts with a ‘C’, and although I thought we came to an understanding earlier today, apparently she still thinks I am a fuck-up of the first order and sent her best friend, who, coincidentally, used to be my best friend, over to check up on me.”

  “Are you allowed to use the f-word on the air?”

  I whirl around in my chair and see Matt Ryan standing at the door of the cottage.

  “Oh, look,” I say, turning back to the microphone to cover that fact that my pulse has started to race. “It’s the next-door-neighbor with boundary issues. Come on over here, Matt Ryan, and say hello to our listeners.”

  Although I can’t see his face, I’m pretty sure he’s frowning at me. But a few seconds later, his jeans appear in my peripheral vision.

  “You’re not really on the air,” he says, then adds, “right?”

  I grin but don’t answer.

  “And I don’t have boundary issues.”

  “No one thinks they have boundary issues until they are bodily removed from the premises,” I say into the mic. “My guest today is Mr. Matt Ryan, pot-smoker and next-door-neighbor to my brother and the inimitable Marilyn with a ‘C’. Have a seat, Matt, and take a load off.”

  I feel, rather than see, Matt shift his weight from one foot to the other. He walks away only to return with one of the folding chairs. He sets it beside me, then lowers his admirable backside onto the faded torn cushion. He cocks his head to the side and gives me a Cheshire smile.

  “So, Matt, welcome to our show. How are you on this fine Southern California evening?”

  He leans into the microphone, close enough to me that I can smell his clean-soap scent. “Pot-smoker, huh?”

  “Among other things,” I say, turning my attention away from his blue eyes. “So, how is Greta today?”

  “Whoa, harsh.”

  “Greta, dear listeners, is Matt’s former employee whom he fired yesterday because she was old. Age-ism strikes again.”

  “I was not being age-ist!” he protests, then realizes we are talking to dead air. “It was more than that, and you know it.”

  “What I know is that when women reach a certain age, they are labeled as obsolete by mainstream society, which is why they seek out any and all avenues to restore their youth, at their own peril, most of the time.”

  “Oh, so we’re talking about you now, huh?” Matt says. Surprised, my head snaps toward him.

  “That’s good, Matt. You’d do well on my actual show.”

  He slides the microphone away from me, then reaches up and pushes the headset off of my ears. His fingers inadvertently brush against my scalp and I shiver.

  “What’s up?”

  His question is informal, almost intimate, as if we are old friends.

  “Regarding what?” I ask.

  “Regarding the fact that you’re pretending to give a radio broadcast.”

  I don’t really want to answer, but he’s looking at me with such open curiosity and concern that I feel I should give him an explanation.

  “It’s therapy for me. Which is kind of ironic, because I pay a fortune to a psychiatrist and he doesn’t help me nearly as much as…” I gesture to the mic…“this.”

  “So why do you still see him?”

  “Court order.”

  He chuckles. “What do you need therapy for? I’m assuming you didn’t lose another child today.”

  “Oooh. Snarky. That’s good.”

  “Sorry. That was mean.”

  “No, I love mean. I’m the queen of mean, now that Leona Helmsley’s dead.”

  “You don’t strike me as particularly mean,” he says. His eyes meet mine and I have to look away.

  “And how do I strike you?”

  “Smart. Funny. Cynical. Pretty.”

  I feel my cheeks go hot at the compliment. I can’t remember the last time an attractive man gave me an outright compliment. Adam doesn’t count because even when he was stroking my ego, he was simultaneously stroking another part of my anatomy and possibly having a part of his anatomy stroked by me.

  “Thanks,” I say, deciding not to qualify my good looks by giving credit to my dermatologist. “But I’m also mean. I always have been, from birth, according to my father. Probably as a result of spending nine months inside a hostile womb.”

  “That would do it, not that I know anything about wombs, hostile or otherwise.” His grin is contagious. He reaches out and picks up Magic Johnson and taps him on the head, making his afro bob up and down. “Still, you make it work for you, right? Number six rated morning show in the five boroughs?”

  I give him a pointed look. “I never said that.”

  He shrugs. “I Googled you last night.”

  A tiny shiver of delight courses through me, but I ignore it. So what if he Googled me? It’s not a big deal. People Google other people all the time and it doesn’t mean they want to jump anyone’s bones. (Except when I did a Google Image search for Gerard Butler after I watched 300).

  “I’m flattered,” I say, keeping my tone neutral. “I’d like to be number one, but what can you do? We just keep plugging away. I can’t wait to get back. I have tons of material and I’ve only been here three days. I’ll be good till next year.”

  “You miss it, huh?”

  I nod. “I miss my life.”

  “I can understand that. You’ve sort of been thrown into a whole new world.”

  I laugh. “Yeah. I seriously do not know how my brother does it.”

  “Does what?” comes a voice from behind us.

  Matt and I turn toward the door of the cottage. Danny stands there, thumbs tucked into the pockets of his slacks, a mildly curious expression on his face.

  “Parenthood,” I say, then turn to Matt. “Danny got my father’s genes.”

  Matt furrows his brows and gives me a questioning look, but I don’t elucidate further.

  “What are you guys doing in here?” Danny asks.

  “Well, I came out here to escape from Patsy-Watsy-fo-fanna-fuck-face,” I say sweetly, then gesture to Matt. “I don’t know what your neighbor’s doing here.”

  “You know, sis, Patsy’s just trying to help.”

  I bite back a comment. No sense in starting anything with Danny.

  “I like your studio,” I say, changing the subject. “You’ll have to play me something you’re working on.”

  Danny’s face lights up as he crosses to the desk. “Oh, you know, it’s minimal. I
don’t have Pro Tools, or anything. I mix everything on the computer, but I’m pleased with the sound. Not that I’m doing anything with it, it’s just for fun. Well, you know. You’ve heard it yourself. I love it though. It’s good therapy.”

  Matt and I exchange a grin.

  “What?” Danny asks.

  “Nothing,”

  I stand up and turn off the microphone and keyboard, then stretch my arms up over my head. I look down to see Matt eyeing me appreciatively, and when I glance over at Danny, my brother is smiling like a kid with one hand in the cookie jar.

  He clears his throat. “Hey, Meg, you should sit in with us Sunday night. Wait till you hear Matt play the guitar. He totally rocks. And, dude, my sis has some pipes.”

  Again, Matt and I exchange a look.

  “I know she does,” Matt says. “I heard her. We were having a little impromptu jam last night, over a bottle of tequila.”

  Danny’s jaw drops.

  “While you were seeing Caroline,” I clarify. “I wasn’t on kid-duty.”

  Danny puts his hands up. “No, no. Of course not. That’s awesome, you guys.”

  My brother’s smile is a little too wide and I can see the wheels turning in his brain. I suddenly feel like a teenager being pushed into going steady with my brother’s best friend, which, by the way never happened because in high school all of my brother’s friends thought I was insane.

  “I think I’m going to go inside and hit your treadmill, Danny. I haven’t worked out since Sunday, and I’m feeling a little jiggly.”

  “I’m going to get home, too.” Matt says, pushing back from the folding chair.

  “Hey, no, Matt, look, uh, Patsy’s making dinner. You’ve met Patsy, right? Caroline’s friend? She brought enough to feed a freaking army. Why don’t you join us?”

  I roll my eyes and take a deep breath, then count to ten, during which time Matt shakes his head and says, “I don’t want to intrude.”

  “Seriously, no, man. You eat with us all the time!”

  Matt glances at me, embarrassed. “Not all the time.”

  I give them both a wave as I head for the door. “I’m going to get some exercise.”

  “Uh, sis, my treadmill’s busted.”

  “What? Are you kidding? How do you break a treadmill?”

  Danny shrugs. “Lack of use?”

  “Okay. I’m going to go for a run.”

  “It’s dark outside. You’ll get lost.”

  “Danny, I’m a grown woman. I think I can take care of myself.”

  “The streets are tricky around here.”

  “I could go with you,” Matt says. “If you want. I missed the gym today and I could use a little cardio.”

  The last thing I want is to be pounding the pavement, sweating like a pig, my boobs bouncing up and down, heavy breathing like Darth Vadar, with handsome hunk Matt Ryan gliding along next to me, slowing his pace, jogging backwards so that I can keep up with him. The thought horrifies me.

  “That’s a great idea!” Danny exclaims gleefully. “Then you can come back to the house for dinner.”

  “Great,” Matt says, without looking me in the eye, likely because he can sense my reluctance. “I’ll get changed and meet you out front.”

  I open my mouth to protest, then think better of it. What do I care if Matt Ryan jogs with me? After next week, I probably won’t see him for another five years.

  “Whatever.”

  As soon as I reach the grass, Godiva rushes at me, tennis ball in mouth. She drops the ball at my feet and I kick it to the other side of the yard. When she makes chase, I hurry to the kitchen door and slip inside the house. The aroma of sautéed garlic hits my nose.

  “Dinner will be ready in forty-three minutes,” Patsy announce from the stove.

  “How nice,” I reply, heading for the dining room. “By the way, Patsy, who’s cooking dinner for the rest of your brood tonight?”

  “Ethan has a pizza party for baseball and Lilly has play practice. Dennis is taking Callum to Boomer’s as a special treat for getting all E’s on his report card.”

  All E’s? If E comes between D and F, why is that cause to celebrate?

  You know what? I don’t care.

  “I’m going for a run. If I’m not back in time, you go ahead and start without me.”

  I hear her tsk behind my back, but I keep walking. Cera is still on the couch, the book laying open beside her. She gazes absently into space.

  “Hey.”

  She glances over at me but says nothing.

  “I’m going for a run.”

  “So?”

  “Back at you,” I snipe, then move down the hall. I pause at the door to McKenna’s room. She and Tebow and Patsy’s kids are happily playing with LEGOs. McKenna looks up and frowns when she realizes it’s me, then returns her attention to her toys.

  I continue to the guest room and quickly change into my newly purchased workout gear. As I lace up my cross-trainers, I consider that if Matt weren’t coming along, I might just jog my way to South America.

  Sixteen

  Caller: He kissed me and it was great! But it’s been three weeks and he still hasn’t called.

  Meg: First of all, when did the Barry and Meg Show become an advice-for-the-lovelorn column? And second, it was just a kiss! Get yourself a vibrator and get over it!

  Barry: Can you say vibrator on the air?

  * * *

  Ordinarily, I run to clear my mind. I talk for a living, and, consequently, listen to other people talk ad nauseam. I use my exercise time to get a break from the noise of human beings flapping their gums. At my gym, I plug myself into my phone and listen to the sounds of the ocean. No songs with lyrics, because lyrics tend to get in the way of my meditation. Sometimes, I choose wind or raindrops. I’ll find a corner machine with no view of the mounted televisions, and let myself zone out. Often, I come up with ideas for segments for my show, or solve a personal problem, or figure out the way to save the economy. (I once sent an email to the White House about lowering the national debt through a country-wide bake sale. Not surprisingly, I never heard back.)

  Tonight, I can’t pop my earphones into my head, not because I don’t want to offend my jogging companion, but because my earphones are in a Ziploc baggie along with my Bluetooth, packed in my luggage, which is probably in Bora Bora.

  When I emerged from the house and strode to the asphalt to stretch my calves and hamstrings, I was afraid that Matt Ryan would plague me with small talk for the entirety of our run. But we’ve been jogging side by side for five minutes, and he hasn’t yet spoken a word.

  On a side note, it should be mentioned that Matt has a set of legs and a pair of biceps that would make any woman hyperventilate, even those who can run a mile without breaking a sweat. His limbs are strong and sinewy, with just the right amount of hair. I try to keep my eyes on the pavement ahead, but every time we pass a street lamp, I steal a sideways glance at him. He seems unaware of my attention and I wonder if he’s truly oblivious or just pretending.

  I can tell he’s holding back on the run. I’ve always been like the tortoise in the Tortoise and the Hare story. I keep going and going and going, but at a nice comfortable pace. I reckon my slow trot must be driving him nuts.

  “You can go ahead, if you want,” I tell him between breaths.

  “No, this is good. My heart rate’s up, but I’m not feeling like I’ll keel over or anything. I like it.”

  I shrug and keep moving. He speeds up, loping ahead of me a few meters, then stops and rolls his neck, his shoulders. He extends his left arm and pulls at it with his right hand. As soon as I reach him, he falls into step beside me.

  “How is it?” I ask. “Your shoulder?”

  “It’s good. This is good for it. Thanks for letting me come along.”

  I don’t answer, just take a few gulps of fresh air.

  The darkness envelops us in the street, but every now and then a car slowly passes. On both sides of us, houses are lit up
, their occupants going about their nightly business. TV sets flicker, children run through rooms, moms set tables, dads read their papers or check their emails. A cat shrieks to my right and I flinch, bumping into Matt. He reaches out to steady me, and I feel the heat of his touch on my arm. For a split second, a fire roars through my veins and my blood seems to pump at double speed.

  “Okay?” he asks.

  I nod and subtly disengage from him.

  “Different soundtrack here than in the city, huh?” he says.

  “Yeah. Definitely no cats. Sirens and crack heads, but no cats.”

  He chuckles. “How peaceful.”

  “As long as the sirens aren’t coming for me, it is.”

  “Or the crack heads.”

  I’d chuckle too, but I don’t want to pass out, so I keep my breathing steady.

  We turn onto Songbird Circle and I refrain from commenting on the stupid street name.

  “You’re in good shape,” he says. I glance over at him, but his focus is fixed on the pavement.

  “For thirty-nine,” I agree.

  “For any age,” he counters.

  A few seconds pass. “I’m forty.” I can’t for the life of me figure out why I decided to come clean with him. The endorphins must be messing with me. “I know I told you I was thirty-nine. Sorry. I’m forty.”

  “Is this like true confessions or something?”

  “No, I just…It’s difficult to say my age out loud when I’m sober. Forty sounds really old. Thirty-nine sounds so much better.”

  “Yeah, but if you keep saying you’re thirty-nine, it’s going to sound pretty stupid when you’re fifty.”

  “True. I hadn’t thought that far ahead.” Yikes. Fifty. That sounds even worse.

  “I’m forty-one,” he says.

  “Congratulations.”

  “I have no problem saying it out loud.”

  “That’s because you’re a man. It’s different for men.”

  “You think that, but not really. Not when you reach forty and you’ve never been married and don’t have kids. Everyone thinks you’re gay or deeply disturbed.”