“You’re getting wrinkled.”
“It’s not that hot,” I coughed through the steam.
“You’re getting drunk.”
“It’s rosé. I’m pretty sure you can only get tipsy on the pink stuff,” I laughed. Still, I decided he was right. It was time to get out of the bath. At 31 years old, this newlywed was already a little too wrinkled for her liking.
Hubby handed me a towel. Before he even got a word out–typical, really–I looked up at him and asked him one more time:
“Do you really think I should do it? I’m gonna do it. Should I do it?”
“Do what you want.” He smiled at me, then walked into the other room.
“What are you doing? Hey!” I hated when he did this. Leaving decisions up to me was a very bad idea. And yet, he did it all the time. His philosophy is, so long as no one gets hurt, I’m a grown woman, it’s really all up to me. Once, I e-mailed him from the 27-floor building where I worked, saying I hated all the bureaucracy, hated the tediousness of the work, and wanted to quit. Could we afford it?
He typed back: “Do what you want. Do what makes you happy. Do whatever doesn’t involve jumping out the window of a high-rise building.”
I finished getting dressed, wrapping the towel around my head like a turban. As I walked out of the bathroom, I found Bill standing at the kitchen counter, pouring me another glass of wine.
“Here you go,” he smirked, handing it to me.
“What’s this for?”
“See! I knew you knew I was gonna do it.”
“Of course you’re gonna do it. You’re showing off how good you are at finding phone numbers on the Internet. Show-off.”
“Do you think I’m crazy? I mean, it’s probably not even his phone number.”
“I’ve always thought you’re crazy. This just makes you crazier.”
I didn’t even stop to stick my tongue out at him. I took a quick swig of the wine, picked up the phone, and started dialing.
One ring. No one was going to answer. Come on. It was his home phone number in New York. How the hell did that end up on the Internet? Two rings. Did this mean I was a stalker? It just popped up on my screen! It’s not like I’d even been looking for it! Three rings. Someone was answering. Holy hell, someone was answering!
“Um, Mr. Sitcom Actor?”
“Yes. This is Mr. Sitcom Actor.”
“Wow, I didn’t think you’d answer. I’m Heather. In Montreal.”
“Hello, Heather in Montreal.”
“I, er, um, I just wanted to call and tell you how much I’ve loved your work in movies and television. I’ve watched it all.”
“Hey, that’s really nice. I’m about to go to dinner with my girlfriend and my Mom…”
“No, no, I’m married, Mr. Sitcom Actor. He’s right here, actually. I’m just outgoing like this. I just felt like you might need a pick-me-up. I had this gut instinct that I should call. It must sound crazy.”
“No strings attached? Really? Wow, that’s really sweet. I’ll tell my Mom!”
“Cool. Have a good dinner.”
“I will, Heather in Montreal. Thanks so much for the call.”
I hung up the phone, turned to hubby, and performed a jiggly-jumping-up-and-down-quick-spin-around-“Oh Yeah! I did it! Oh Yeah!” ritual that I would come to refer to as my Heather Dance.
“Ha! He answered! And he was touched!”
“Or maybe you’re touched.”
I laughed and clicked my wine glass with his.
And that was how it all began.
Read the next chapter here:
The Fine Line: Emails from L.A.