Semi-Scripted: A Wanderlove Novel Read online

  “A long day, my brain hurts.” She lowered her head into her hands then smiled up at him. “I am glad to see you.”

  He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, finally able to breathe. “You want to get out of here for a little while? There’s a—”

  “Evan? No way. Hey, man.” A guy with a beard and a vaguely familiar face slapped him on the back.

  It took him a few squinting seconds to put the face with the name floating in his head, but when he did Evan burst into a grin. “Clint. Hey! What are you doing here?” In high school his best friend’s older brother had been untouchable. The girls fell all over themselves to get his attention. The guys fell all over themselves to score invites to his parties. Evan and Matt watched from afar, as if they could learn how to be exactly like him with the right amount of time and sacrifice.

  “I’m here for this public health conference.” He gestured to the signs dotting the hotel landscape. In the next breath, Clint launched into a spiel about West Virginia and wheelchair ramps and camps for kids who were getting into trouble.

  “Wow. So you guys are competing for the same grant?” Evan asked.

  Clint nodded. Behind him, Marisol’s face contorted into horror.

  “But we’re cool,” Clint said. “Plus, there’s a problem with our application. It’s a whole thing. My boss is a nutjob. How do you guys know each other?” Clint asked.

  “I, uh…” Evan tried not to look at Marisol, who was making a throat-slitting motion behind Clint’s back. “I mean, we don’t.”

  Shit.

  “I forgot some things at the show,” Marisol said. “This man was bringing them back to me. Thank you again.” She picked up the giant portfolio, as if anyone would believe she’d left a two-foot by three-foot folder behind.

  “Wow.” Clint raised an eyebrow. “That’s some service.”

  “Yes, muchas gracias.” And then she was gone, fading into a crush of people who’d stumbled into the lobby.

  He hadn’t been able to show her the sketch. Or hand her the flash drive. He hadn’t told her about his ideas for practicing her presentation. Or that Penny had made the Ahora links live on the show’s website.

  He hadn’t kissed her again.

  “Sorry man, didn’t mean to block your game,” Clint said. “Want to go after her? I mean, that look on your face is one thing. But driving all the way out here to hand-deliver whatever she forgot? Damn.”

  Evan shook his head. Marisol clearly didn’t want Clint to know about the show. Maybe this had to do with her “serious nurse” hang-up. Which was stupid, especially where Clint was concerned. Evan had once seen him do six shots of Jack and then do backflips out of the bed of a truck.

  The outskirts of Peoria were a weird place.

  “Hey, how do you like working on the show? Matt made it sound pretty cool.”

  “It’s okay. Ups and downs. We’re kind of struggling—”

  “Any way you could hook me up with a ticket? That show kills me.”

  “Yeah, no problem. What night do you want to come?” As soon as he said the words, Evan knew Marisol’s secret would be out. Shit.

  “How about tomorrow?”

  He scrambled for an excuse. Any excuse. “It’s a long way from here. At least an hour on the bus. Might not be worth it.”

  Clint shrugged. “I’m already in LA. What’s another hour?”

  “And there’s a lot of waiting around beforehand. It’s actually super boring. And hot.”

  “A price I’m willing to pay.”

  Evan gulped in a breath of chilly hotel air. It’ll be fine. Clint’s cool. “You sure?” he asked.

  “Yeah. I’m sure.”

  Not much he could do at this point, not without giving away Marisol’s emerging starlet status. “Come by the studio around four o’clock. I’ll make sure we have a ticket for you.” Only fifty more tickets and maybe he could keep the giant baby from getting a seat.

  Once Clint slipped away to mingle, Evan wandered into the main area of the lobby. He’d hoped Marisol would still be there, waiting to see if the coast was clear. But the armchairs were empty and only a handful of guests stood in the center, looking sweaty and worn. He pulled out his phone and jotted off a text.

  I’m in the lobby. Clint’s gone.

  If the hotel had crickets, they would have chirped. Instead, ringing phones filled the space. None of them his. He wandered to the nearest sandwich-board style sign announcing the location of the conference. Tacked to the back, a single sheet of pink paper fluttered each time the lobby doors slid open or closed.

  DELLA SIMMONS DOCUMENTARY FILM FESTIVAL

  Evan glanced at his phone. More metaphorical crickets. For a brief moment, he considered leaving the flash drive at the front desk. At least then she’d get the chance to see her hard work pay off. But it had outtakes from the show and the sketch wouldn’t air for hours. If one of the clerks decided to nose around before calling her room, Evan would be fired in ten seconds flat.

  He checked his phone one last time then stepped out into the cooling night, leaving the conference—and Marisol—behind him.

  Day Eight

  Moving halfway across the country for this internship made some things easier. Evan suspected he could order delivery every day of his semester in Los Angeles and never make it through half his options. In Peoria, he’d been limited to a half dozen pizza places and one subpar Indian restaurant. In LA, a trip to the grocery store meant the possibility of running into a famous director. In Peoria, a trip to the grocery store meant the possibility of running into his high school English teacher. In LA, it was easier not to care so much about fitting in. The entire place was overrun with people who didn’t belong anywhere else—crazy creative types chasing their dreams were a dime a dozen here. In Peoria, he’d felt like the only one who cared more about watching Saturday Night Live than playing fantasy football.

  But one thing was definitely harder in Los Angeles: extracting himself from a phone call with Gramps.

  “They’re called headshots, Gramps. And I don’t have any. They’re for actors.”

  “Looks like you’re an actor now to me.”

  Despite all the miles between them, Evan knew exactly the pose his grandfather was striking. Sitting straight-backed in his recliner, tapping his left index finger on the arm of the chair. His interrogation pose.

  “I’m not. It’s just a thing. Short-term. I’m the intern—I have to pretty much do what they say.”

  “You aren’t having to give any handy work are you? California is a weird place. Tilda at the senior center said her granddaughter moved out there and this director—”

  “No, Gramps. No.” Evan wasn’t sure what was worse: that his grandfather was asking him about giving hand jobs or that he was seriously considering explaining the term was hand job, not handy work.

  “Good. So if you send me about five of the pictures, that should be plenty.”

  “I told you I don’t have any headshots to autograph. And, even if I did, I don’t think anyone from the Peoria Senior Center will be interested in buying them from you.”

  “Kid, everywhere I go in this town someone asks me about you. On the CityLink bus. The grocery store. At Freddy’s Tavern—”

  “Why are you going to Freddy’s?” The dingy bar was a favorite of the underage college crowd. The bouncers didn’t care if you looked five or fifteen—as long as you had some kind of ID that said you were twenty-one.

  The tone in Gramps’s voice went from all-nonsense to no-nonsense. “Had to check on something.”

  Dad.

  “He’s drinking again, isn’t he?” Evan asked.

  “Maybe if you’d call him once in a while, you’d know.”

  Evan puffed out a deep breath. Digging up his resentments from their shallow grave was the last thing he wanted to do right now. “I better go. I’ve got a bunch of stuff to do before the taping starts.”

  “I don’t got much time left here, kid. I don’t want the two of y
ou still fighting when I’m worm food.”

  Here we go. Again. “Don’t play the old man card. We’ve been through this. I’ve really got to go.”

  “Send me the autographs.”

  “Okay.” Anything to get off the phone. Anything to get out of this conversation. Maybe he’d grab a handful of napkins from the green room, sign those, and drop them in the mail.

  His dad had checked out after Evan’s mom died. Left with a teenage son, a sixty-hour a week job, and a wrongful death settlement several hundred thousand dollars deep, his dad went from casual beer at a cookout to a six-pack every night. Then more. Evan stopped counting. Eventually Gramps stepped in. He gave Evan’s dad one of his famous come-to-Jesus talks, and for a time it seemed to work. But now—

  “You need to get to wardrobe. They finally found a shirt long enough for your arms.” Andrew shoved a few pages in his hand, snapping his head back into the present. “This is the sketch. Or the bones of it. You were right about doing these semi-scripted, Blue Balls.”

  “Blue Balls? Your nickname game is lacking today.”

  “Don’t get too big for your britches there, Fuck Face. You still might screw this up and get us all fired. I’ve got kids that have to eat you know.”

  Evan’s head nearly imploded. No pressure. “You have kids?”

  “I’ve never met them, but I’m sure they’re out there. And probably hungry too.”

  “You’re an asshole.”

  “Yep. But I’m our asshole.” Andrew clapped him on the back. “Seriously, good job.”

  Evan let himself gloat—just a little. He flipped through the pages, recognizing his ideas there, interspersed with Marisol’s quips.

  “Don’t get too giddy there. Julia’s got a massive case of the Tuesdays.”

  Tuesdays. The day before the network email would or would not come. The day before he’d know if all this public humiliation had been for nothing.

  That gave him one more day to hope. One more day to pretend like this would go on forever. By some miracle, he’d save the show, have his pick of job offers, Marisol would never leave, and they could spend all their free time making out on game show sets. Denial would be his very best friend today.

  “Any idea how it’s looking?” he asked.

  Andrew shrugged. “The Internet is bonkers. Did you know you’re like the unofficial spokesman for erectile dysfunction meds now?’

  He rolled his eyes. “What about the numbers?”

  “Don’t know yet. But it’s sticking around. Some of the celebrity news shows ran a clip this morning. And I think one of the morning shows. The ones that call themselves news but are really just alcoholics sitting on a couch for four hours. You should ask Penny. She’s been handling it all.”

  The last time he’d seen Penny, she’d practically been a fire-breathing dragon. No thanks.

  But two steps out of wardrobe, Evan had to face another dragon. Julia.

  “Why are we always running so late? We needed to start shooting five minutes ago. Where’s Marisol?”

  Evan glanced at his watch. He’d have to go back to regular intern duties in a couple of hours. Which meant James would start warming up for the show soon. “She’s probably doing her presentation stuff with James.”

  Julia shook her head. “I cancelled it. Well, I never really set it up. Let’s go.”

  “Julia, wait.” He trailed behind her, praying he hadn’t heard what he thought he’d just heard. “We told Marisol she’d meet with James today—”

  She stopped, closed her eyes, and let out a ragged breath. “Evan. It’s Tuesday.”

  “I know.”

  “You know what that means?”

  “I know. But Marisol said she would do this if James could listen to her presentation and give her tips. Put the Hollywood shine on it.” He felt stupid even saying those words aloud. He couldn’t imagine how Julia felt hearing them.

  “I know. I’m not an idiot. But we need the time for the shoot instead.”

  “We don’t need that much time. We only need a couple minutes of—”

  “We made some adjustments. It’s going to need a little more time.”

  He’d seen the script. It shouldn’t take more than a half an hour to get what they needed. Especially now that they all had a handle on what they were doing. “Julia—”

  “Tape it,” she said.

  “Tape it?”

  “Tape her presentation. Tell her James will watch it. Then you or Penny or whatever hobo you can find can write up some tips. Done.”

  “So lie?”

  “I didn’t say that. You did. Now go outside. Please.” Her attempt at politeness was anything but. She stalked off before he could protest any further.

  After he’d peeled off his So Late T-shirt and slipped his arms into the still-too-short sleeves, he made his way outside. The line of game show contestants snaked along the sidewalk. The usual suspects were present and accounted for. Unicorn. Giant Baby. Gorilla. But lots of fresh blood as well. A light breeze fluttered the wings of two women dressed as scantily clad butterflies. At the front of the line, three people huddled together dressed like they’d just stepped out of a maudlin production of Cats. At the back, a man with a black handlebar mustache, mullet, and green trucker hat goosed a blonde wearing entirely too much eye shadow. Evan wasn’t sure exactly what constituted too much eye shadow, but like porn, he was certain he’d know it when he saw it. And this was it.

  “Hi.”

  Evan jolted. Marisol’s voice had reached his ear before he noticed she stood beside him. But once he’d noticed, he couldn’t stop noticing. The way her collarbone peaked out of the neck of her shirt. The way she pulled her bottom lip between her teeth when he met her eye. The way she kept tucking her hair behind one ear.

  She was nervous.

  And so was he.

  “Sorry about yesterday,” she said. “I was a little freaked out.”

  He’d been freaked out, too. But her reasons had to do with things like saving lives and letting down her family. His reasons had more to do with whether he should have brushed his teeth a third time before heading over to the hotel. “You’ve got a lot on the line here.”

  “So do you.”

  “How about this: when the taping’s over, we hit up Wonton Queen for some take out?” he asked. “Just us.”

  “Perfect.”

  He turned her toward the crowd, letting his hands rest on her shoulders. “Which one?”

  “The pink butterfly.”

  “You think? I was thinking the woman with all the purple stuff on her face. Back there.” He jerked an elbow toward the line and narrowed his eyes. He couldn’t quite tell if Mullet Man and Eye Shadow Lady were in costume, but he suspected not. Either way, they’d make for great TV.

  “No, no. Her man friend looks…”

  “Unstable?” Evan watched as the man adjusted his trucker cap and winked at the woman beside him. Then at the woman behind him. Then at the unicorn.

  She shuddered. “I was going to say like a perverted one. So, the butterfly, yes?”

  Something in her voice made Evan turn. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.”

  She was lying. He could hear it. Evan leaned in closer, leaving less space than proper between them. “What’s the matter?”

  “I feel like all of these people are watching us.”

  A million responses ran through his head. Things that—if this were a Hollywood rom-com full of beautiful people with beautiful cars and exquisite taste in clothing—would be the perfect script material to precede a long, lingering kiss.

  “I guess that means I shouldn’t kiss you right now?” he asked.

  She glanced at her feet, then back at him. “Not if we want to keep pretending I am your wing girl.”

  “Hey! It’s Marivan!” Like a sword, the shrill voice cut through every bit of traffic and chatter in the air.

  Evan turned, trying not to flinch at the sound. “What’s a marivan?” he whisper
ed.

  Marisol shrugged.

  “MARIVAN! Over here!” Now every head in a half-mile radius stared either at Evan and Marisol or the source of the voice. And the source of the voice was jumping up and down while staring directly at them.

  While his mustache flapped in the breeze. Mullet Man.

  Marisol blinked several times. “Is that—”

  “The love child of Fran Drescher and Ozzie Ozbourne?”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind. He’s talking to us, right?”

  “I think yes.”

  “Marivan! We came all the way from Oklahoma on my rig to see you. Can we get a picture?”

  “Me?” Evan asked.

  “The both of y’all. Get in here.” The man held out his arms like he was ready to wrap them in a big hug. Or in Saran wrap, so he could take them back to his “rig” and murder them both on the spot.

  Evan crept over to the line with Marisol at his heels. “You, uh, a fan of Who’s Got the Coconut, sir?”

  “What’s that?” the man asked.

  “You know, honey.” Eye Shadow Lady smacked Mullet Man on the forearm. “The one with the tank full of those ugly sucker fish.”

  “I don’t care about no game show,” Mullet said. “I just want this here picture. Me, you, and our ladies.”

  “I am only his wing person,” Marisol said.

  “Sure, sure,” Eye Shadow Lady said. “I think this one’s gonna change your mind, sweetheart. Like ol’ Tommy did here with me.”

  Mullet Man smirked and handed his phone off to the person in front of him—a man dressed as an exceptionally large caterpillar. Evan and Marisol ducked in beside the couple, and the caterpillar snapped the photo with one of his many arms.

  “What time you start letting us into the studio? Anything we’ve gotta do to get a front-row seat?”

  “You know this is the line for Who’s Got the Coconut, right?” Evan asked.

  “No shit? Where do we get in line for your show?”

  My show. The words almost erased the weirdness of the situation.

  Almost.

  How did these people not realize they were standing in a line filled with the world’s worst Halloween costumes? Then he remembered every time the giant baby had slipped to the front row of So Late and ended up on camera, despite the fact that Evan always sat him in the back.