Jennifer Weiner - Good in Bed

Adrian rocked back and forth on his feet and gave me a sweet, slightly dopey grin. “Sounds like a plan,” he said.

First, though, there was the not inconsequential matter of getting him to surrender the keys.

“Ooh, a convertible,” I cooed when a small red car arrived at the curb. “I’ve never driven one.” I shot him my most coy and charming glance. “Could I drive it?” He handed over the keys without a word, then sat beside me quietly, not saying much except to tell me where I should turn.

When I glanced over he had his hand pressed to his forehead.

“Headache?” I asked. He nodded with his eyes shut. “Beer before liquor?”

He winced. “Ecstasy before vodka, actually,” he said.

Oof. I guessed if I was going to stay in Hollywood, I’d have to get used to people casually confessing to recreational drug use. “You don’t look ecstatic,” I ventured.

He yawned. “Maybe I’ll ask for a refund,” he said, and glanced at me sideways. “So, you’re, um… when are you…”

“I’m due on June fifteenth,” I said.

“So your, um, husband’s back in…”

I decided to end the game of fill-in-the-blank. “I’m from Philadel-phia, and I don’t have a husband. Or a boyfriend.”

“Oh!” said Adrian, sounding like he felt himself to be on firmer ground. “So, your partner’s back there?”

I laughed. I couldn’t help it. “No partner, either. Just your classic single unwed mother.” I gave him the briefest bare-bones outline of the story: me and Bruce, our breakup and twenty-minute-long reconciliation, the pregnancy, the screenplay, and my flight to California a scant twelve hours ago.

Adrian nodded, but didn’t ask any questions, and I couldn’t look at him to read his face. I just kept driving. Finally, after a series of twists and turns I knew I couldn’t hope to remember, let alone repeat on my own, we found ourselves parked on a bluff overlooking the ocean. And in spite of the smog, it was magnificent: the smell of salt water, the rhythmic sound of the waves on the shore, the feel of all that water, all that power and motion, so close to us…

I turned toward Adrian. “Isn’t this great?” I asked. He didn’t answer. “Adrian?”

No movement. I leaned toward him slowly, like a big-game hunter approaching a lion. He didn’t stir. I edged closer still. “Adrian?” I whispered. No murmured endearments, no inquiries as to the subject of my screenplay, or the nature of my life in Philadelphia. Instead, I heard snoring. Adrian Stadt had fallen asleep.

I couldn’t help but laugh at myself. It was a classic Cannie Shapiro moment: out on the beach with a gorgeous movie star, with the wind whipping the waves and the moonlight gleaming on the water and a million stars in the sky, and he’s passed out.

Meanwhile, I was stranded. And getting cold, too, with the wind blowing off the water. I looked in the car in vain for a blanket or a stray sweatshirt. Nothing doing. It was four in the morning, according to the glowing green hands of my watch. I decided I’d give him half an hour, and if he didn’t wake up and start moving I’d… well, I’d figure something out.

I turned the engine on so I’d have heat, and music from the Chris Isaak CD he had in the CD player. Then I sat back, wishing I’d worn a jacket, keeping one eye on Adrian, who was snoring to beat the band, the other on my watch. It was… well, pathetic, really, but also a little bit funny. My big trip to Hollywood, I thought ruefully. My romance. Maybe I was the kind of girl who deserved to be mocked in magazines, I thought… then I shook my head. I knew how to take care of myself. I knew how to write. And I had one of the things that I wanted most in the world – I’d sold my screenplay. I’d have money, comfort, some measure of fame. And I was in Hollywood! With a movie star!

I glanced to my right. Said movie star was still not moving. I leaned closer. He was breathing harshly, and his forehead was covered in sweat.

“Adrian?” I whispered. Nothing. “Adrian?” I said in a normal voice. I didn’t see as much as an eyelid twitch. I bent over and shook his shoulders lightly. Nothing happened. When I let him go he flopped bonelessly back into the bucket seat. Now I was getting worried.

I slipped one hand into his pocket, trying not to think of the potential tabloid headlines (“Saturday Night! Star Molested by Wannabe Screenwriter!”) and found his cell phone. After a little fumbling, I produced a dial tone. Great. So now what?

Then it hit me. I reached into my purse and pulled Dr. K’s business card out of my wallet. He’d told us in one Fat Class session that he didn’t sleep much, and was usually in the office by 7 A.M., and it was later than that on the East Coast by now.

I held my breath and punched his numbers. “Hello?” said his deep voice.

“Hey, Dr. K. It’s Cannie Shapiro.”

“Cannie!” he said, sounding happy to hear from me, and not at all alarmed by the fact that I was calling long-distance in what was, for me, the wee hours of the morning. “How was your trip?”

“Just fine,” I said. “Well, so far so good. Except now I seem to have a problem.”

“Tell me,” he said.

“Well, I, um…” I paused, thinking. “I made a new friend,” I said.

“That’s good,” he said encouragingly.

“And we’re at the beach, in his car, and he’s kind of passed out, and I can’t get him to wake up.”

“That’s bad,” he said.

“Yeah,” I agreed, “and it’s not even the worst date I’ve been on. So normally I’d just let him sleep, except he told me before he’d been drinking and also taking Ecstasy…”

I paused, and heard nothing. “It’s not what you think,” I said weakly, even though I had no real idea what he was thinking, except that it was probably some combination of my name and words like “flaky.”

“So he’s passed out?” asked Dr. K.

“Well, yeah. Basically.” I sighed. “And I thought I was being fairly amusing.”

“But he’s breathing?”

“Breathing, but sweating,” I elaborated. “And not waking up.”

“Touch his face, and tell me how his skin feels.”

I did. “Hot,” I reported. “Sweaty.”

“Better than cool and clammy. We don’t want that,” he told me. “Try this. I want you to make a fist…”

“Done,” I reported.

“Now rub your knuckles along his sternum. His breastbone. Do it pretty hard… we’re trying to see if he reacts.”

I leaned over and did as he instructed, pressing hard. Adrian flinched and said a word that might have been “mother.” I re-settled myself in my seat and told Dr. K. what had happened.

“Very good,” he said. “I think your gentleman caller is going to be just fine. But I think you should do two things.”

“Go ahead,” I said, tucking the phone under my chin and turning back to Adrian.

“First, turn him on his side, so in case he does vomit, he won’t be in danger of aspirating any.”

I nudged Adrian until he was semi-sideways. “Done,” I said.

“The other thing is just to stay with him,” he said. “Check on him every half hour or so. If he turns cool or starts shaking, or if his pulse becomes irregular, I’d dial 911. Otherwise, he should be fine in the morning. He might feel nauseous, or achy,” he cautioned, “but there won’t be any permanent damage done.”

“Great,” I said, cringing inwardly as I imagined what the morning would be like, when Adrian woke up with the mother of all hangovers and found himself beside me.

“You might want to take a washcloth, dip it in cool water, wring it out, and put it on his forehead,” said the doctor. “That is, if you’re feeling merciful.”

I started laughing. I couldn’t help it. “Thank you,” I said. “Really. Thanks a lot.”