Jennifer Weiner - Good in Bed

Adrian wasn’t handsome in the classic rugged-leading-man mode, and he wasn’t one of the latest crop of androgynous pretty boys, either. He was more boy-next-door – medium height, regular features, unremarkable brown hair, and standard-issue brown eyes. What made him special, appearance-wise, was his smile – the sweet, crooked grin that exposed an ever-so-slightly chipped front tooth (he always told interviewers that he’d done it falling out of his treehouse at age nine). And those regular brown eyes could convey a thousand variations on bafflement, bewilderment, befuddlement – in short, all of the b words necessary to playing the lead in a romantic comedy. Taken by themselves, the pieces were nothing special, but put them together and you had a bona fide Hollywood hottie. At least, that’s what Moxie called him in the “Men We Crave!” issue.

I’d been thankfully immune to teenage crushes, had never papered my locker with pictures of New Edition or anything, but I had feelings for Adrian Stadt. Watching him on Saturday Night! as he cringed and whined his way through impressions of Kid Picked Last for Kickball Team or sang the faux-operatic “PTA Mother’s Lament,” I’d felt that if we’d known each other, we could have been friends… or more. Of course, judging from his popularity, millions of other women felt exactly the same way. But how many of them were standing in the Star Bar on a warm spring night in Los Angeles, with the object of their affection in front of them?

I shuffled back until I was leaning against a pillar, trying to hide so I could stare, uninterrupted, at Adrian Stadt’s back and trying to decide whether I’d call Lucy or Samantha first with the news. Things were going fine until a gaggle of skinny girls on stilettos surged into the room and planted themselves in front of, behind, and all around me. I felt like an elephant who’d blundered into a herd of sleek, fast, gorgeous antelope, and I couldn’t see an easy way to blunder my way back out.

“Hold this a sec?” the tallest, blondest, thinnest of the girls asked me, indicating her silvery pashmina shawl. I took the shawl, then stared at her, feeling my mouth gape open. It was Bettina Vance, lead singer of the chart-topping power punk band Screaming Ophelia – one of my late-night dancing favorites when I was in a bitter mood.

“I love your music,” I blurted, as Bettina snatched a martini.

She looked at me, bleary-eyed, and sighed. “If I had a nickel for every fat girl who said that to me…”

I felt as shocked as if she’d thrown ice water in my face. All this makeup, my great haircut, new clothes, all of my success, and all the Bettina Vances of the world would see was another fat girl, sitting alone in her room, listening to rock stars sing about lives they couldn’t even dream about, lives they would never know.

I felt the baby kick then, like a little fist rapping sternly at me from the inside, like a reminder. Suddenly, I thought, the hell with her. I thought, I’m someone, too.

“Why would you need donations? Aren’t you rich already?” I inquired. A few of the gazelles tittered. Bettina rolled her eyes at me. I reached into my purse and, thankfully, felt my fingers close around what I needed. “Here’s your nickel,” I said sweetly. “Maybe you can start saving for your next nose job.”

The titters turned to outright laughter. Bettina Vance was staring at me.

“Who are you?” she hissed.

A few answers occurred: A former fan? An angry fat girl? Your worst nightmare?

Instead, I went for the simple, understated, and, not coincidentally, true answer. “I’m a writer,” I said softly, forcing myself not to retreat or look away.

Bettina glared at me for what felt like an unbelievably long time. Then she snatched her shawl out of my hands and stalked off, taking her gaggle of size zeros with her. I leaned back against the pillar, shaking, and ran one hand over my belly. “Bitch,” I whispered to the baby. One of the men who’d been hanging at the edge of the crowd smiled at me, then walked away before his face could really register. In the instant it took me to figure out who he was, Maxi was back at my side.

“What was that all about?” she asked.

“Adrian Stadt,” I managed.

“Didn’t I tell you he was here?” asked Maxi impatiently. “Jesus, what’s with Bettina?”

“Never mind Bettina,” I burbled. “Adrian Stadt just smiled at me! Do you know him?”

“A little bit,” she said. “Do you?”

I rolled my eyes. “Oh, yeah,” I said. “He’s in my bowling league back in Philadelphia.”

Maxi looked puzzled. “Isn’t he from New York?”

“Kidding,” I told her. “Of course I don’t know him! But I’m a major fan.” I paused, debating whether to tell Maxi that Adrian Stadt had basically inspired my screenplay. Just as Josie Weiss was me, Avery Trace was Adrian, only with a different name, and without the annoying penchant for dating supermodels. Before I’d decided what to say, she connected the dots. “You know, he’d be a perfect Avery,” she murmured. “We should talk to him.”

She headed toward the window. I froze. She turned around.

“What’s wrong?”

“I can’t just walk up to him and start talking.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m…” I tried to think of a nice way to say, “in a completely different league than handsome, famous movie stars.” I arrived at “… pregnant.”

“I think,” said Maxi, “that pregnant people are still allowed to converse with nonpregnant people.”

I hung my head. “I’m shy.”

“Oh, you are not shy. You’re a reporter, for heaven’s sake!”

She had a point. It was true that, in my working life, I could, and have, routinely just walked up to people far more powerful or influen-tial or better-looking than me. But not Adrian Stadt. Not the guy I’d allowed myself a one-hundred-page daydream about. What if he didn’t like me? Or what if, in person, I didn’t like him? Wouldn’t it be better to just preserve the fantasy?

Maxi shifted from foot to foot. “Cannie…”

“I’m better on the phone,” I finally muttered. Maxi sighed, charmingly, the way she did everything. “Wait here,” she said, and hurried to the bar. When she came back there was a cell phone in her hand.

“Oh, no,” I said when I saw it. “I had bad luck with that phone.”

“It’s a different phone,” said Maxi, squinting at the numbers she’d drawn on her hand with what looked like lipliner. “Smaller. Lighter. More expensive.” The phone started ringing. She handed it to me. Across the room, in front of the room-length windows, Adrian Stadt flipped his own phone open. I could see his lips moving, reflected in the glass.

“Hello?”

“Don’t jump,” I said. It was the first thing I could think of. As I spoke, I moved so I was standing behind a pillar draped in white silk, hidden from his view, but in a spot where I could still see his reflection in the window. “Don’t jump,” I said again. “Nothing could be that bad.”

He gave a short, rueful laugh. “You don’t know,” he said.

“Sure I do,” I said, with the phone in a death grip in my suddenly sweaty hand. I couldn’t believe this was happening. I was talking – flirting, even! – with Adrian Stadt. “You’re young, you’re handsome, you’re talented…”

“Flatterer,” he said. He had a wonderful voice, low and warm. I wondered why he always spoke in that weird whiny singsong in his movies, if he really sounded like this.

“But it’s true! You are. And you’re in this wonderful place, and it’s a beautiful night. You can see the stars.”

Another bitter burst of laughter. “Stars,” he sneered. “Like I’d want to.”