“Oh, I didn’t own that place. I was only renting. Actually, Pal Porter owns it. That dude has more money than God.”
“Pal Porter? The studio executive icon? How’d you. . . weren’t you his nutritionist?” I said. I could have sworn Craig said he owned that house. Was I imagining things? And isn’t Pal notoriously bi? Why would Pal want Craig living with him? Actually, I know the answer to that one. I’m not THAT naïve.
“Yeah, when he got sick, right about when I moved in to keep him on his program, make sure he ate right and all that stuff. Totally better now. Anyway, hon, I’ve got to really focus. I need to call these guys and get directions. And we should leave in about an hour. Maybe while I shower, you can pick up some food for us. Then we’ll roll.”
“Oh,” I said, sinking into my seat.
As we pulled up to the condo, I noticed the name on the keypad wasn’t Craig’s. It was that of his friend—another very wealthy friend. As we walked into this gorgeous structure of glass and steel beams, I noticed something else. Craig’s room was not the master bedroom. It wasn’t even the guest bedroom. It was an over-sized laundry room.
“Great pad, eh?” Craig nodded at me, not caring to hear my response as he went about his business of tossing bags on the bed and searching for toiletries.
I nodded back, the truth about him an ever-expanding mystery.
Craig’s cell phone rang as we hit the I-5, halfway to the party. I had just begun to rationalize in my head how unimportant it was that Craig should own a house on the beach, or even a house at all. I didn’t even care that he didn’t seem capable of renting a condo on his own or that he had to sleep amidst piles of dirty clothes that didn’t belong to him. Don’t let it ruin the night. He’s doing something most people never do. He’s giving up everything for his dream! I half-listened to his cell phone conversation while listening to the radio and having a conversation with myself about the state of Craig.
“Hey, what’s up?. . . Good. How are you?. . . Same old. Yeah. Just got back. . . Amazing, totally amazing. . . Hit the summit. . . Yup, filmed the whole thing. . . Not too much. Mainly prepping for the next big one. . . Oh, just going to a BBQ with a friend. . .”
Friend? I glared at him. FRIEND? I was suddenly just a friend! My heart began to thrash. How dare he? Am I that big a loser I think I’m in love with someone who considers me just a friend?
Craig hung up the phone. I waited, attempting to collect myself, not sure whether to cry or to sock him.
“Friend?” I said, staring into his eyes, expecting him to beg for mercy.
None came.
“I’m just a friend?”
“What?” he said, suddenly perturbed.
I felt my heart pounding, “That person, whoever that was— you told them I was your friend?”
“They’re not important. I hardly know them.”
I was seething. “If they’re not important, then why didn’t you say ‘with my girlfriend’? I am your girlfriend, aren’t I?”
“You’re acting crazy, Jane. Calm down.”
“I am calm,” I said, feeling broken. “I’m just trying to understand.”
I couldn’t believe he had no explanation, no story. He’d nonchalantly called me a “friend” and was okay with that. My whole world seemed to collapse.
“Friend? Come on, Craig. That hurts.” I felt the tears forming.
My wheels began churning. I thought back to Craig’s many mysterious rendezvous during the last few months, his endless evenings of work, his surprise weekend trip to Mexico with a “buddy.” Did he have someone on the side? Through my head raced visions of him curled up naked with some uber-girl: his fingers exploring her impossibly thin body; his head ensconced between gravity-defying cleavage; her thick brown mane framing her face and pillow like those in a Victoria’s Secret lingerie ad—both of them giggling with delight.
How can I compete with that? I’m sporty! Cute. My mom says beautiful, but she’s my mom. I’m tall. My mom also says I’m swan-like—again, she’s biased. I suppose I have good posture, but I’ll never have that perfectly firm butt you can bounce a quarter off of, or those super slender legs that look so good in skinny jeans, or when wrapped around a guy’s head in bed.