7

Brushing my teeth the next night before crawling into bed with the TV on as background noise, I pick up the ringing phone to hear Stephen excitedly yelling my name.

“Kate! You are my little star! You were at your finest on that show. I don’t think it gets much better than that!”

“Glad you liked it.” I mumble through the toothpaste in my mouth, spitting into the sink and rinsing my mouth.

“Did you fuck him?”

“What? No, I didn’t fuck him! Christ, you think a little TV exposure turned me into a complete slut?”

“Hey, a little sluttiness wouldn’t kill you. And, if you’re going that route, he’s the one to go there with.”

“Well, I hate to disappoint you, but nothing happened.” Shutting off the light in the bathroom, I shuffle out to the bedroom and flop onto the bed with my free hand pushing the hair off my forehead, noting how the mere mention of slutty behavior and fucking Trevor makes my skin go a few degrees warmer.

“He took quite a liking to you. Is that why his manager wanted your contact info? Maybe you should work that.”

“Stephen, I’m going to end this conversation now. Is there anything else you need?”

“Kate, you’re hot. I mean, really, you’re a hot chick. I can see why he got all flustered and shit. He doesn’t know you really, so all he has to go on is your looks—he’s completely unaware what a pain in the ass you are.”

“Good night, Stephen.” I hang up the phone, shut off the TV, and head to bed. Hoping no one else watching the show will notice the connection between me and Trevor the way Stephen did.

I’m only able to delude myself for a few days before Lacey storms into my office on her lunch break from The Beauty Barn.

“Hey, Lace, what’s up?”

“What in the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Pray tell, what have I done now?” I roll my eyes innocently.

“I was on my way home from work, listening to the radio, and they’re getting ready to play a song, guess by who?” Lacey is tapping her foot impatiently, like a living, breathing, annoying metronome.

“I don’t know. Backstreet Boys? Air Supply? You know I don’t listen to the radio much.”

“Trax.”

I spin around in my desk chair and grab a file out of my credenza drawer so that I conveniently have my back turned to her.

“What’s your point?”

“My point is, before they played the song, they babbled about Trax being rumored to have a new girlfriend. A writer. From Montana. The girl that was shamelessly flirting with him on Hal Abrahms’s show. Does any of this ring a bell?”

I turn back to face Lacey. “What do you want me to say?”

“I want you to say that this is gossipy bullshit. I want you to say it’s impossible you’re having some fling with this guy!”

“Well, I don’t think I would call it a fling. I mean, we talked on the phone, we went to dinner, we kissed once—wait, twice, actually.”

Lacey’s irritating foot tapping stops abruptly. Her face goes entirely slack for a few seconds before she clenches her jaw closed, then groans out, “Oh. My. God. You kissed him?”

“What is your problem? You’ve never given a crap who I date before.”

“That was before my sister started going out with a thug. A rich and famous thug, but still!”

“Trevor is not a thug. At least, he’s never acted thug-like around me.”

“ ‘Trevor’? Are you kidding me? You’re on a first-name basis with him?”

“Calling someone ‘Trax’ sounded like a joke to me.”

“What are you two doing? Are you dating?”

“No. We’re just . . . Jesus, I don’t know.”

“Let me get this straight. I’ve tried to set you up with a ton of great guys. Bankers, lawyers, even a doctor, but you would rather go out with this guy?”

“I didn’t ask you to set me up with any of those guys. You took it upon yourself to do that.”

“What about Kevin? He was a nice, decent guy, who really liked you. But you dumped him because he was, as you put it, ‘weird to the tenth power.’ Kevin’s weird, but this guy is normal?”

“Kevin was weird. He used to bring his own silverware to restaurants, he wouldn’t use a towel more than once, and he arranged his socks in order of wear. That is weird.”

“Every time I turn around you are doing something crazier and crazier, Kate. Just when I think you’ve gotten it together, you do something like this. What would James think? What would Dad think? Or even Mom?”

Rising up from my desk, I’m consciously trying to keep my fists to myself. Standing directly in front of her, my jaw clenched, I seethe, “Lacey, it is none of your business who I choose to date. But since you asked, Dad would have wanted me to be happy. Period. Just happy. And, Mom, well, after she bailed on us, I kind of stopped worrying about what she might think.”

Lacey takes a small step back from me and crosses her arms over her chest protectively.

“But, for your own good, don’t ever ask me in that tone what James would think. That’s way out of line. Now, unless you want to go to lunch and talk about something else, I suggest you leave.”

Lacey turns around and walks out of my office in a huff, stomping her feet with far more emphasis than necessary—after all, I’m the one getting grilled like a sidewalk tramp, so if anyone is entitled to huffing and puffing dramatically, it should be me.

Despite Trevor’s phone call, I don’t really expect him to keep in touch with me. Even if the idea of returning to LA for The Evelyn Summers Show and possibly seeing him again has kept me awake at night more than once.

So when the texting starts, it really messes with my head. The first time, I’m lying in bed at home reading when my stupid cell phone chirps.

Are you aware that a baby whitetail fawn has approximately 300 spots?

What? I have to read it a few more times and then confirm who it’s from again. I’m positive he sent this to the wrong person. Although, who would he have been sending it to instead? Who in his inner circle would need or care to have this information? Simon? Not likely. I debate, again, if this communication requires a response. Setting the phone down, I look at it, still confused. A few minutes later, it chirps at me again.

Do I need to specifically state that I’m asking you a question? Again, are you aware that a baby whitetail fawn has approximately 300 spots?

I can’t do anything but furrow my brow and stare at the phone again. How am I supposed to respond to something as random as that? It’s like when a stranger starts making idle conversation with you in line at the grocery store and all you want is for the checker to hurry up so they won’t see all your purchases and decide they actually know you well enough to start commenting on the brand of yogurt you like.

No. I was not aware of this important factoid. And, I live in Montana, where the deer and the antelope play. This begs the question, why do you know this information? You live in LA, where deer only exist as mythical creatures in the minds of small imaginative children, right?

I’m researching Montana.

Well, that’s interesting, isn’t it?

Then the next day, it chirps insistently again. This time, I’m pumping gas and trying to get the dollar ticker on the pump to land on an even number. It’s a pathetic little game I like to play.

Check this out! It’s the guy we saw at the skatepark. He just won a huge contest in Austin.

I click on the link to see the kid again, looking almost exactly like he did at the skatepark, but this time in front of a huge crowd. At the end of his run on the video, he raises his arms triumphantly, like his world finally makes sense. Grinning, I send Trevor back a smiling emoticon.

On and on, random texts keep arriving. Some are funny, some seem wistful, or maybe I’m reading too much into them. That’s the problem with texts and e-mails. There’s too much room for interpretation and maniacal questioning. What does that mean? Why doesn’t he say something back? Should I have texted that? Will he think it’s funny? Why? Why? Why?

Then on Friday, just a few days before I have to head back to LA, he sends a text that sounds irritated. If it’s even possible for a text to “sound” like anything.

Is there a reason I’m always the text initiator in this relationship? Why do I feel like I’m chasing your ass around? Not that I really have any issue with chasing that ass around.

Cripe, how is it possible to screw up a text-based relationship? I don’t even think it should count as a valid form of communication if you are older than thirteen. So I type back.

I don’t even like texting. You should be grateful I even respond to yours. I ignore all the ones my sister sends me. R U mad? ← See that? That’s what texting has done to the English language.

Well, when you put it that way. Sorry I bothered u with all my annoying texts. Thank you, thank you for answering them.

I would prefer if you only sent me written correspondence. On fine linen paper using a quill pen. Using words like “anon” and “doth.” These letters should have a wax seal of your family crest and be delivered via carrier pigeon.

Anon, I doth not have a family crest. We’re a white-trash-in-the-projects kind of family. Do prison tattoos count?

Not really. I promise to text you something random at some point. I wouldn’t want you feeling like you’re chasing me around. I think we both know you can catch me.

You bet that sweet little ass I can.